The 2018 Most Stupendously Awesome Calendar Challenge
by Stutley Constable
Summary: As sponsored by Hades Lord of the Dead, this is my response to a series of prompts submitted by other participants in the challenge. All stories/chapters are based in the canon of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's 'Sherlock Holmes'. If you enjoy my writing, please leave a review. Merry Christmas!
1. Chapter 1

Prompt from Ennui Enigma: Holmes and Watson surprise Mrs. Hudson

* * *

 **AN** \- Greetings all. I just want to say a brief thanks to Hades Lorde of the Dead for inviting me to participate in this year's challenge.

I have not been writing much Holmes of late, but I promise I will give you my best effort and hope to intrigue and entertain one and all.

* * *

 **The Case of the Mistaken Surprise**

"Tilt your head back, old boy. We'll soon have you right as rain."

"Gny'm a thdocta, Olmes. Leeph ma be!"

"I cannot understand you, Watson. Tilt your head back. I'll wipe away the blood."

"Gny szaid, leeph ma be!"

"Oh tut, Watson! No need for that. Here! Take the cloth and do it yourself. I have my own injuries to attend. I don't think my wrist is broken, but it must surely be sprained."

"Guud! Gnou desurb id!"

"Piffle! How was I to know?"

"Gnou are Scherlogg Olmes. Iss gnour busthnesth do gnow whad outhders do gnot."

"Oh yes. Of course you would throw that in my face. Very droll, Watson. Very droll."

*Nock*Nock*Nock*

"Yes! Come in, Mrs. Hudson."

"Your ice, Mr. Holmes."

"Thank you. Wait. Is this all there is?"

"For you? Yes."

"Bund gny nosthe!"

"Your nose, Doctor? What about my knuckles? You seen these? How am I supposed to get the housework done with my hand looking like this? Tell me that, Doctor. On top of my rheumatism, too."

"I am sorry, Mrs. Hudson, but the doctor is quite right. We must have more. Between my wrist and my ankle, I will certainly need more. At least twice this amount."

"Well…"

"Pleedths, Misthisth Hudsung."

"Oh, all right! What you two gentlemen thought you were up to, I don't know! Jumping out and surprising me like that? There was a time when a lady could run a decent household!"

"You were not our intended target, Mrs. Hudson. I already explained."

"Oh yes. Some boogeyman lurking at the back door. Yes. Of course! Don't expect a proper breakfast. Wynona is a good girl, but she is a poor cook."

"The icthe, Misthisth Hudsung?"

"All right. I will return in a moment. Just don't you bleed on the floor, Doctor."

*SLAM!*

"We aren't going to hear the end of this any time soon. You know that, Watson."

"Idsth gnour fauld."


	2. The Adventure of Ralston Howe

Prompt from Hades Lord of the Dead: Adoption.

* * *

 **AN:** This chapter took considerable more work than I had intended. I suppose I'm not used to writing under deadlines and got carried away with a plot that would have otherwise occupied no less than a dozen chapters.

* * *

 **The Adventure of Ralston Howe**

"Sir?"

I felt a small hand upon my shoulder, gently shaking me awake. I rolled onto my back and looked into the face of our maid, Julia. She was already dressed for a day's work so I knew it could not be earlier than four o'clock, yet there was only lamp light coming through the window.

"What's the matter?" I asked, my tongue still thick with sleep.

"It's Mr. Holmes, sir," she said with a pinched expression. "I didn't like to wake you. He insisted."

"What is it, John?" Mary asked sleepily.

"Nothing, my dear. Holmes is calling."

"Holmes?" Mary sat up and blinked at our clock on the dresser. "It's not yet five! It must be urgent."

"Go and tell Mr. Holmes I will be down in a minute," I said, reaching for my dressing gown. Julia lit the lamp beside the clock and departed.

"What do you think he is up to?" Mary asked.

"A case, surely." I fumbled into my dressing gown and found my slippers. "No need for you to get up and about yet, darling."

"Do not worry about me, John. See to Holmes."

I kissed her cheek and descended to find Holmes pacing in the parlor. Julia had put more coals on the fire, but the room was not yet warm.

"I do apologize for calling at this inauspicious hour, Watson."

"I can only assume it is an emergency," said I, going to the mantel and lifting the lid of my old mahogany cigar box. I offered one to Holmes.

"Thank you, no, Watson. I prefer my pipe."

"Of course," I said, closing the lid. "You need me?"

"I do." Holmes struck a match and began to puff, eyeing me narrowly. "By any chance did you read of the supposed burglary at the estate of Colonel Ward Brookes in Ralston Howe?"

"No," I said. "I know nothing of it. Who is he?"

"A somewhat tragic figure, I'm afraid. He is certainly not a well man, having suffered a stroke some five months ago. Twelve years prior he lost his family to a fire that all but destroyed his home. He was away serving in India at the time. His wife and two children were killed, along with several members of the household staff. One young child survived thanks to her mother, a nursemaid to the Brookes children. That child is now a fifteen year old girl. Five nights ago someone tried to smother her in her sleep."

"Good God!" I motioned for Holmes to take a seat and settled in my chair, leaning forward with great interest. "Was the girl harmed?"

"No more than badly frightened. Her father - I should say - her adoptive father came to her rescue." Seating himself he was about to go on when Julia entered bearing our china coffee service. Holmes waited until she had done and then continued. "The public position of the local police is that it is a burglary gone wrong."

"You do not believe that," I said, lighting my pipe.

"I do not," he confirmed. "Nothing about the incident rings of burglary to me. The details I have so far all point to an assassin. I do not use that word lightly."

"What details?" I asked.

"Just these: The girl, her name is Virginia, was three years old when she was orphaned. One of the Colonel's footmen had recently married. He and his wife adopted the child and raised her along with two of their own. Virginia currently lives with them in a large cottage on the estate. Her bedroom is on the first floor at the back of the cottage. According to Colonel Brookes, the local newspaper and statements made by the father, the intruder entered through the kitchen, climbed a set of stairs and had to pass the bedroom of the younger children, a pair of boys, in order to reach the girl's room. Nothing was stolen."

"You say the girl was rescued. I take it the intruder was not apprehended."

"He was not, Watson. Virginia woke with a pillow over her face. As is natural for anyone, she fought back. Being young and vigorous she was able to thrash about quite a lot and succeeded in knocking a pitcher of water off her night table. The crash woke her family. The two boys, frightened, cried out and the father ran up the stairs. Hearing the struggle he went to her and pulled the assailant off. They struggled and the intruder escaped."

"Monstrous! And good for her! Do the police really believe it was a failed burglary?"

"As incompetent as they can sometimes be, I am of the opinion they are trying to keep things quiet until they can track down this intruder."

"And you have been engaged to help the police find him?"

"Not precisely," he said. "In the course of my investigation if I can help the official police, I will. However, the intruder might only have been a hireling. The colonel, though diminished, is no fool. He came to me at Baker Street and asked me to discover why the girl was targeted."

"I see. But how can I help?"

"Good old Watson," said Holmes, smiling. "You can help the way you have done so many times in the past. I want a good man at my side. And your medical expertise may be of considerable use. How soon can you be packed? I should only need you for two days."

"I'll have to send round to Anstruther," I said. "He'll take my practice any day. Let me confer with Mary. Would you care for breakfast?"

"As prepared by your delightful Julia? Yes and thank you."

A short train journey later, Holmes and I stepped down onto the platform at Ralston Howe. It was no more than a broad, snow covered boardwalk with an awning and a ticket office. We were fortunate in that Colonel Brookes, expecting us, had sent round his covered gig, drawn by a well-muscled bay mare.

"You'd be Mr. Holmes?" the driver asked my companion.

"Indeed. This is my associate, Dr. Watson."

"How do you do, sir?" the man said, tipping his hat respectfully and collecting our bags. "If you gentlemen will climb in, I'll get you to the estate as quick as may be."

Holmes and I settled on the bench and covered ourselves with the blankets provided. The countryside was beautiful in its winter coat of snow and ice and I admired the quaint cottages as we passed down one narrow lane after another.

"Am I right in thinking you are Mr. Lucius Flynn?" Holmes inquired of the driver.

"I am, sir, and I thank you for coming to help with my little Virginia," the man said. "She's dear to me and my wife, and I tell you we were all shaken when that man came into our home."

"It was you that ran him off," I said.

"I did. I only wish I had gotten hold of him proper. I would have saved the hangman some work. Nearly had him. Right in my grasp he was! Then somehow he wriggled out. I was always a good wrestler, Doctor. Many is the lad who beat me in boxing, but few could best me once I had them on the ground. I still can't figure it."

"Mr. Flynn, we know Virginia is your adopted daughter," said Holmes. "Can you tell me how that came to pass?"

"It's no secret," the groom said. "There was the fire, sir. No one knows how it started. All that timber framing, lath and plaster and all the wood furnishings made plenty of fuel once it did, though."

"I understand, but the adoption?"

"Well, Lauren Winters, Virginia's true mother, was married to Paul Winters, the under butler. Lauren was the children's nurse. She was perfect for the position, having two of her own. Lauren and Mrs. Brookes, I think, became very close in spite of class differences, if you'll pardon me saying. The missus cared for little Virginia and Alan as much as she cared for Timothy and Alexandria, her own children. So I'm told, anyway. The day of the fire was more sad than I can say, sir. Lauren, she come stumbling out the back door, face black with soot and coughing, choking, not able to catch her breath. In her arms was her two little ones, Virginia and Alan. All three was in a bad way and Alan, poor tike, died right there. Nothing anyone could do for him. Lauren held on a few minutes. Long enough to put Virginia in my Florence's arms."

"And so you and your wife adopted Virginia," said Holmes.

"We did, sir. Had we not, she would have gone to the Church orphanage and we just couldn't bear the thought after so many was lost. I was only a footman at the time, but Florence and me didn't have no children, yet. The colonel's solicitor helped us through the process of adopting Virginia legally, you understand. And he made certain we were kept on while the manor was rebuilt. When the colonel returned from India, he made me chief groom and moved my family into the big cottage."

"You were there when Mrs. Winters died, then," I said. "How sad."

"Well, not right there, Doctor," said Flynn. "I was with the colonel's nephew, Mr. Michael Sellers, organizing the other men and trying to put the fire out. It was my Florence and one of the maids who went to help Lauren when she came out."

"Sellers? Is he the son of Colonel Brookes' sister?" asked Holmes.

"No sir. Mr. Sellers is the nephew of the first Mrs. Brookes what died in childbirth. Mrs. Emily Brookes, sir. Mr. Sellers barely escaped the house hisself. No coward he. Turned right round and got all of us going. Buckets of water and all. Didn't do no good, but we tried."

"Was Mr. Sellers living in the manor at the time?" Holmes asked.

"Visiting. He came often to spend time with his aunt while the colonel was away. Lives in Willisbury, ten miles down the valley. I hear it's a cozy little home he has. Makes his living as a photographer. Did a portrait of my family last month when he visited the colonel. A kind gentleman, he is."

"Let us now speak of the night the man broke into your home," Holmes said. "Was it a night like any other night?"

"It was cold, is all, sir. Other than that there were no difference."

"You did not hear the man enter?"

"No sir. We was asleep and our bedroom is at the far end of the cottage from the kitchen door."

"Was the door left unlocked?" asked Holmes.

"No. It's my habit to check the front and back doors every night. It wasn't barred, but I am certain it was locked. Keep it barred now, of course, but never felt the need before."

"It sounds as if someone picked the lock," I said.

"Perhaps, Watson. Mr. Flynn, I would very much like to examine your kitchen door. Specifically the lock. I would also like to see the rest of the cottage and speak to both your wife and Virginia."

"I don't object to none of that, sir. The colonel said we were to cooperate, regardless."

"Very good," said Holmes. "How much farther?"

"Less than five miles. Call it roughly half an hour, sir."

I relaxed back into my seat and found it difficult to reconcile the peaceful countryside with the two harrowing tales Mr. Flynn had just related. I must have given something away in my expression or posture for Holmes leaned close and said under his breath, "Recall what I have told you about the lowest and vilest alleys in London, Watson."

I looked at him, confused for a moment before I voiced my recollection, "They do not present a more dreadful record of sin than the smiling countryside?"

"Correct. Unfortunately." He patted my arm and leaned back in silent thought.

Not long thereafter, Flynn turned off the road up a long gravel drive lined on either side with naked trees sheathed in ice. The drive passed by a fair sized half-timber Tudor manor house. Perhaps the façade had been restored, or it could be that it had not been ravaged by the fire, but the south end of the house was a blackened ruin, cleared of rubble and gutted. The liberal winter coating helped to make it more picturesque, and yet for me it was an all too melancholy sight. Thankfully, it was soon hidden by a screen of cedars and a beautiful old cottage materialized in the near distance.

"There it is, gentlemen," Flynn said. "Florence will have hot coffee or the makings for tea waiting. Not long now."

At the cottage Flynn left us in the care of his wife, an attractive, dark haired woman of thirty-odd. While he went to attend to the horse and gig Mrs. Flynn seated us and served cups of strong, savory coffee.

"Mrs. Flynn, your husband says neither of you heard the intruder enter," said Holmes, rolling his coffee cup back and forth between his palms. "Is that correct?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. First I knew of anything wrong was when the boys called out."

"You did not hear the water pitcher hit the floor?"

"I may have. I don't recall clearly. It all happened so very fast, sir." She shook her head and rubbed at her lower lip. "No. I have to say I did not actually hear the pitcher shatter. I woke when Lucius jumped up from the bed. And I remember the boys calling out for him and screaming something about their sister."

"Did you see the man, Mrs. Flynn?"

"He fair ran me over coming down the stairs," she said, pointing to the foot of the steps. "We had only moonlight to see by. I can say he was a man near as tall as Lucius, but no more. He was fleet of foot, though. Sprang for the door and was gone before Lucius got to the head of the steps."

"Is Virginia here?" Holmes asked. "I would like to speak with her."

"I suppose it would be all right," Mrs. Flynn said, hesitantly. "Please, sir, do not distress her."

"I am the soul of discretion," said Holmes.

Mrs. Flynn called her daughter down from her room and the girl greeted us very politely. Virginia was tall for her age. She had delicate hands and large, blue eyes. Her hair was lighter than auburn but not quite red. Taken as a whole, she was a beautiful young woman and yet there was a fretfulness about her. I had seen the same sort of reaction in young soldiers after their first encounter with the enemy. Their eyes a little too wide. Their reactions a little too jerky. This girl was living a soldier's life in her own home.

"Virginia, what can you tell me about the night you were attacked?" Holmes asked.

"It was cold. I was warm under my covers. I remember there was snow falling in the moonlight before I fell asleep. And then I could not breathe. I tried to scream and I could not. I felt a weight on my chest and I beat at it. That was when I understood a man was trying to smother me with my own pillow. Somehow, I knocked my water over and that was when my brothers began calling for father."

"And your father fought off your attacker." Holmes tapped his upper lip meditatively. "Did you get a look at the man? Was there enough light to see?"

"I do not know what he looked like, Mr. Holmes." Virginia pressed her lips together and dropped her eyes. "All I wanted was to get away from him. I have never been so frightened."

"Holmes, that's enough," I said, giving my friend a warning look and hoping he would, for once, listen to me.

"Yes. Very well, Watson. Miss Flynn, you are an extremely fortunate young lady. I will do all in my power to see to it this man never troubles you ever again."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," she said and did him a courtesy before fleeing up to her room once more.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," said Mrs. Flynn. "I am going to make sure Virginia is all right."

"Well Holmes?" I asked as soon as she was out of the room.

"Very unsatisfactory," he said, rising and crossing to the kitchen door. "We have nothing more than what I began with, Watson."

I waited while he opened the door and inspected the lock. I was about to warn him not to let the warmth out, but he stepped outside and closed it behind himself. Half a minute later he reentered the kitchen, his eyes blazing with interest.

"This lock was not picked, Watson."

"Are you certain?" I asked. Holmes gave me a scornful look. I said, "That means Mr. Flynn must be mistaken about locking it."

"I do not think so. He impressed me as a studious man."

"Are you suggesting the intruder had a key?"

"All I know for certain is that this lock was not picked. There are no scratches from a jemmy. Even the most skilled pick lock is prone to leave some trace. Here, nothing."

I was about to ask what our next move would be when I noticed Holmes's expression change to one of acute interest. His eyes were fixed on something over my right shoulder like a hawk ready to stoop. I turned to have a look. On the wall hung the family portrait Lucius Flynn had told us about. It was an excellent quality photograph with the family dressed in their finest clothing and looking appropriately somber.

"What is it, Holmes?" I asked, unsure as to why the photograph had caused his reaction.

"Nothing," he said, waving it away. "I had a sense of de ja vu. I thought I had seen that photograph somewhere before."

"Well, most such images look similar, Holmes. Black and white and shades of grey. Our descendants will think we were a drab lot, possessing nothing but black, grey or white clothing."

"Perhaps to the masses we will appear as such. To trained observers each photograph is as unique as the people in them."

"Trained observers such as yourself?" I asked.

"Precisely, Watson. Why from here I could tell you Miss Virginia Flynn was not related to any of the other people in the photo. See how strongly the two boys resemble their father? And if you look closer at the ears you will see the similarity between the boys and the mother. Too, Virginia has much finer cheek bones and her brows are…"

"Holmes?" I asked when he did not continue.

"Watson, I have never seen that photograph before." Holmes took a step closer to the framed image, the light in his eyes intense. "Come! We must find Mr. Flynn!"

He was already making for the door before I even rose.

"Where are we going?" I called after him.

"The manor house, Watson! Follow!"

"You've solved it?"

"No. But now I can. Come on!"

Holmes and I found Lucius Flynn in the small stable near the cottage shoveling out the stalls. He had not divested the bay mare of her harness and it was only moments before we were back on the road and making for the manor house at a trot. Minutes passed and though I wanted to know what it was Holmes had realized, I dared not break in on his concentration. Reaching the manor we were ushered into a well-appointed library where Colonel Ward Brookes sat behind a large oak desk. He did not rise when we entered and I saw immediately the signs of stroke Holmes had indicated. The left side of his face was not as animated as the right and he hardly moved his left hand. Even so, I could detect his old military bearing and though his left eyelid drooped, his right was sharp as an eagle's.

"What is it, Mr. Holmes?" asked the colonel. "Have you learned something?"

"I have indeed," Holmes purred. "I need a few details before I am willing to commit to a course of action."

"What details?" Colonel Brookes asked.

"Have you a photograph of your late wife?"

"Yes. In my bedroom on my nightstand. It is the only photograph I have of her."

"Would you object to sending a servant for it?"

"I suppose not." The colonel rotated in his chair and pulled a bell cord hanging beside the small fireplace. Half a minute later he dispatched the under butler to fetch the photograph. "Why do you want to see my wife's photograph?"

"In point of fact I want my friend, Dr. Watson, to see it," said Holmes. "Is it the same photograph used in the society column when your wedding was announced?"

"It is. My nephew was the photographer." The colonel looked back and forth between myself and Holmes.

"While we wait, allow me to ask a different question," said Holmes. "Is Mr. Michael Sellers, the nephew of your first wife, your current heir?"

"Sadly, yes. He is the only heir I have. He will get the land and house and whatever is left of my fortune. There will be bequests, small sums, to the servants. The bulk of the inheritance will go to Michael, though."

"Why do you say sadly, Colonel?" I asked.

"Oh, I do not begrudge him anything, if that's what you are thinking, Doctor. I only wish I had an heir of my own blood to leave the estate to. My name dies with me and that is a hard thing to take. What makes it harder is knowing my bloodline also dies with me. It does not matter what I wish, though. Wishes change nothing."

"We shall see, sir," said Holmes. "One other thing. Do you have keys for all of the cottages and households on the estate?"

"Naturally," Colonel Brookes said. "So many times over the years keys have been lost. Several were dropped down wells. My grandfather kept them in a box. That was lost in the fire, of course. I keep them in this drawer right here."

"Would you mind very much, Colonel, showing me the key to Lucius Flynn's home?"

Frowning in concentration Colonel Brookes opened the drawer and began to sort through the keys. After two or three minutes he began setting the keys out on his blotter one at a time, reading the paper tags carefully before putting them in place.

"I don't understand," he said, raking his good hand through the empty drawer. "It should be right here. It has to be."

"The key is missing?" asked Holmes.

"Missing!" Colonel Brookes said, his tone confused and distressed. "It should be here! Right here in this drawer!"

"Sir, your wife's photograph," said the under butler, coming into the room with a black bordered cabinet print. He presented it to Colonel Brookes, bowed and departed.

"Well, here it is, Mr. Holmes. Shall I show it to Dr. Watson or would you prefer to do so yourself?"

"By all means, Colonel, do the honors," Holmes said and peered at me intently.

"There, Dr. Watson. That was my wife. A woman as lovely and caring as any. I should never have left her here."

When he turned the frame so that I could see the image within, I was too stunned to speak. While Mrs. Brookes was certainly an attractive woman it was not her beauty that froze me. Rather, the face that looked out from the frame was nearly identical to Virginia Flynn.

"Holmes?" I finally gasped.

"Observation, Watson," he said, answering my unspoken question.

It took nearly half an hour to explain to Colonel Ward Brookes what the photograph had proved. Virginia Flynn was actually Alexandria Brookes, rescued from a fiery death twelve years prior by Mrs. Lauren Winters. When the truth sank home his reaction bordered on apoplexy.

"Breathe out," I said, pressing my stethoscope to the colonel's back. "I think you will be fine, Colonel. Just a shock. Your heart rate is back to normal. Have a glass of brandy. It will soothe your nerves."

"She has been here on the estate all this time?" he said breathlessly. "How? I don't understand."

"I cannot be sure, sir," Holmes said, lighting a cigarette. "I think it most probably went like this: Your wife and Mrs. Winters had built a relationship based on the mutual care of their children. Flynn told us Mrs. Brookes loved the Winters children as much as your own. And Mrs. Winters loved your children as much hers. At the time the fire broke out all four children were having baths. The women realize the danger. They are cut off from escape. Rather than accept their doom they react with the ferocity of mothers. Together they snatch up whichever children are nearest, wrap them in towels and brave the inferno. Perhaps they intentionally took one child of each family. In that way, if only one mother made it out to clean air and safety one child would remain to carry on the bloodline. Either way, it was a terrible choice for anyone to face. Mrs. Winters survived long enough to save one child and your wife died trying to protect two."

For a very long moment Colonel Brookes could only sit and stare at the floor. Eventually he sipped from his brandy, coughed and straightened his back. He firmed his jaw and fixed his good eye on Holmes.

"What is the rest of it, Mr. Holmes? Who tried to murder my daughter?"

"I have not yet the proof," said Holmes.

"Damn the proof! Who was it?"

"We must be very careful, sir, else he could slip through our fingers." Holmes paced to the window and gazed at the blackened bricks at the southern end of the house. "Has your nephew ever told you how he escaped the blaze?"

"I have never thought to ask."

"Well, Colonel Brookes, I suggest you change your will immediately," Holmes said. "Perhaps I am doing Mr. Michael Sellers an injustice, but we know your daughter lives. We know the key to the Flynn cottage is missing from your desk and we know Sellers has seen Virginia. He could not possibly mistake her for anyone other than your child."

"Did he start the fire that killed my wife, Mr. Holmes?"

"I think it probable. We could never convict him of that. It has been too long and all of the evidence is destroyed by your renovations. We may be able to get him for attempting to smother Virginia. I do not yet know."

"I must protect her." The colonel thumped the desk with his good hand, color rising in his cheeks. It was remarkable how this crisis seemed to be revitalizing the former soldier.

"Changing your will and letting Michael Sellers know it has been changed will do that," said Holmes.

"Perhaps, in the meantime, you should move the entire Flynn family into the manor," I suggested.

Colonel Ward Brookes turned his eye on me and slowly a smile crept onto his face. He lifted his brandy in salute and drank it down.

Weeks later, Holmes and I assisted in confirming the identity of Alexandria Brookes, though she prefers to be called Virginia. We were never able to obtain enough evidence linking Michael Sellers to the attempted murder of Alexandria. However, the scandal raised in the wake of the investigation not only forced him out of the county, it forced him out of the country. His last known whereabouts were near Lake Tanganyika in German East Africa.


	3. Keeping Promises

Prompt from mrspencil: Stanley Hopkins has a secret

* * *

 **AN** : This one is a bit grimmer than the prompt was likely meant to be.

* * *

 **Keeping Promises**

"You think you're hard, mate?"

The fist connected with bone crunching force. Teeth slipped their sockets and spilled from the lips to clicker-click like malformed dice on the wet, dirty cobbles. The man collapsed again and the boys dove in to deliver kicks and punches of their own. Lead pipe and an old cricket bat rose and fell a few times until the leader of the gang pulled them off, slapping and cursing them.

"When I say enough, I mean it," the tall man growled at the pack of scrawny urchins. "Get him upright."

"Gov, we need to move," said the oldest boy. "Not our territory."

"London is our territory. Time this lot learned it." Gov squatted in front of their bloody, broken victim.

"You know who I am?" the victim slurred between ruined lips. He wiped at his eye with a broken hand. Blood dripped down his chin. It bubbled from his swollen, twisted nose and trickled from a cut on his cheek. "You know who I work for?"

"I know who you work for. Don't care who you are." Gov took a handful of the victim's hair and bounced his head off the wall. "You, and them like you, need to know who I am." He cracked the man's skull off the bricks again and slapped him to keep his attention. "These around you, they're the Goblins. Me, I'm him who keeps the boogey man under the bed. Yeah? Monsters don't look in the cupboard 'cause I might be there."

"You're crazy," the victim said. His broken lips sneered but his body visibly trembling. "You have to know he'll kill you."

"Didn't you read the papers? He died at Riechenbach Falls yesterday."

The victim's eyes went wide with shock and fear.

"Didn't know?" Gov asked. "Fell right off. Holmes too."

"Holmes too? Then why?" the victim stammered. "Why this?"

"The doctor and his missus are off limits," said Gov. "The landlady, too. You tell the others who might think about coming for them, they need to steer clear of London."

"You can't stop all of us," the victim said. "You and a handful of boys?"

Gov snorted, placed two fingers in his mouth and gave a sharp whistle. From the shadows emerged dozens of young boys, scrawny and feral like battle scarred alley cats. Gov rose to his full height and gazed down on the beaten man.

"More where they came from, mate. And they're harder than you." He flicked his hand in the air and the boys faded back into the night. "This is the only warning. You tell them."

Gov turned and walked towards Harcourt Street with its bright gas lamps, late evening pedestrians and occasional cab or carriage. A bobby walking his beat spied him and strode over purposefully, asking, "Inspector Hopkins, sir? What are you doing down here?"

"Keeping a promise, Constable Jones." Stanley Hopkins glanced meaningfully across the street.

"I don't understand, sir."

"Read the name on the shingle," said Hopkins.

"John H. Watson, M.D. Oh, I see, sir." Jones glanced quickly around and said, "It's a terrible thing. Mr. Holmes was a great man. You be looking after the doctor, sir?"

"Indeed." Stanley Hopkins nodded somberly.

"Call on me if I can be of service, sir."

"Carry on, Jones. Carry on."


	4. If Wishes Were Horses

Prompt from KnightFury: "If wishes were horses, beggars would ride."

* * *

 **AN** : This prompt was much harder than I thought it would be. And then I recalled there are more characters in the SH universe than Holmes Watson and Lestrade.

* * *

 **If Wishes Were Horses**

"Where have you been all morning?" asked Wynona.

"Errands for Mr. Holmes again." Billy hung his scarf and cap on the peg behind the door and lifted his canvas satchel as proof of his morning occupation. "First I had to walk down to that Madam Tussaud's place. You know, the wax museum?"

"Oh? Why there? I hear it's ever so interesting." Wynona left off scrubbing the floor, casting a very interested look at the canvas satchel.

"Had to pick up a block of wax." Billy pulled out a shoebox sized block wrapped in brown paper and set it on the counter next to the sink. "It's disgusting. Looks like human flesh."

"Human flesh?" Wynona made a horrified face and held up her hand as if to shield her eyes. "Don't take it out! Don't show me!"

"It's just the same color as skin," he said, rolling his eyes. "I won't take it out. Just need to make sure it doesn't get deformed now that it's inside where the air is warm. That's what the man told me. Said if the wax gets warm it can distort."

"Oh." Wynona gave the block a disapproving look.

"Then I had to walk all the way over to the British Museum for some books and then back down to a block of flats in…"

"Billy! Thank goodness!" Mrs. Hudson cried coming into the kitchen. "I was beginning to worry something had happened to you. It's cold out. I imagine your feet are frozen. Your nose is rosy enough. And your cheeks."

"I'm all right, ma'am. No need to worry. I have good socks."

"Wynona, put a kettle on. We'll have our tea early. Thank you dear."

"I'm really all right, ma'am," insisted Billy as the matronly landlady took him by the arm and drew him through her apartment towards the front parlor and the hearth.

"What took you so long out there?" she asked, settling him on a stool next to the fireplace.

"Errands for Mr. Holmes," he said and once again held up his satchel as evidence. "I didn't mean to take so long. I just had a ways to go. Days like this I wish I had a bicycle. Make my life easier and my errands a lot faster."

"I dare say one would," she agreed.

"Yeah, but like my father always says, 'If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.'"

"You are no beggar, Billy." Mrs. Hudson wrapped his hands in a tea towel and rubbed vigorously to warm them. "You earn every penny. And you're a good boy."

"I'm not complaining, ma'am," he said, fearing he had offended her. "I'm grateful for my position. So are my parents. I'm glad I can help my father. And I don't really mind walking."

"Ah! There you are, Billy." Mr. Holmes came down the stairs smiling. "Mission accomplished? Deliveries made? Errands run?"

"And near frozen to the bone!" Mrs. Hudson added, shooting a reproachful look at her lodger. "It is winter, Mr. Holmes, and this is no weather for long errands."

"Entirely right, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes said, capitulating immediately. "I shall take it into account in future."

"See you do," she said.

"I don't mind, sir," Billy said. "I have your books and envelope here. The wax is in the kitchen on the counter by the sink."

"Wynona!" called Mrs. Hudson, continuing to rub Billy's hands. "Bring Mr. Holmes his wax, please."

"Billy, were you really out in the weather all this time?" asked Holmes, peering with concern at the lad.

"Well, yes, I was, sir."

"Why did you not take a cab?"

Mrs. Hudson shot Holmes an incredulous look. Billy merely blinked.

"Of course," said Holmes, realizing how fatuous his question had been. "I'm speaking nonsense. Well done on getting back as quickly as you have."

"Your wax, Mr. Holmes," said Wynona, holding out the paper wrapped block rather gingerly.

"Come see me when you have had a chance to warm up, Billy," he said, took the wax and climbed the stairs to his flat.

"If I had a bicycle I could put a basket on it," Billy said, still thinking about running errands more quickly.

"Why not just get a horse and cart?" Wynona asked.

"Where would I keep them?" he asked.

"Where would you keep a bicycle?" she returned.

"If you can save enough money to buy a bicycle," Mrs. Hudson said, "we can make room in the cellar."

"Truly, ma'am?" Billy asked, his face lighting up with hope.

"Yes. Only promise me you will not stay out in the freezing weather anymore."

"All right, ma'am. I promise."

From above came the sound of Mr. Holmes's door closing. An instant later the tea kettle began whistling and the subject was forgotten.

Weeks passed and Mr. Holmes was good to his word. He had no long errands for Billy to run save one and for that he provided cab fare. Christmas Eve arrived and Billy spent the holiday with his family. Upon his return the day after Christmas he was met at the door by Mrs. Hudson who was just stepping out to sweep snow off the front steps.

"Good morning, Billy," she said. "Enjoy your holiday?"

"I did, ma'am. Very much."

"Good. I'm afraid Mr. Holmes has already been asking for you. He said there is something outside the back door he wants you to deliver to the university."

"Just as well I didn't take my jacket off, then." Billy chuckled. "I'll see to it, ma'am, but the University is a fare piece. I might be gone a while."

"Yes. Well, don't dawdle and if you get cold, stop somewhere for a few minutes."

Billy went through the house to the back door and out again. His breath caught in his throat and his jaw dropped. Standing in the middle of the garden path was a gleaming black Pausey Pioneer Cross-Frame Safety with a bright red ribbon tied on the handlebars. He stepped closer and caught the large tag fluttering in the wind at the end of a string. It read, "Merry Christmas Billy". Hardly believing his eyes, the boy reached out and took the grips in his hands. His thumb found the lever for the small bell and he rang it three times. This was too good to be true! A bicycle like this had to cost fifteen pounds or more!

"I see you got your bicycle, Billy," said Mr. Holmes from behind him. "Fortunate, since I have need of you today."

"It's really mine?" Billy gasped.

"If your name is on it, it must be yours." Holmes stepped down to the path and scrutinized the tag. "Yes. You are Billy. This must be your bicycle. And look, it has Dunlop tires. An excellent brand! And the seat has springs for greater comfort. And this basket, it is my own design. It will not interfere with the handbrake."

"But I don't know how to ride it, sir."

"No time like the present to learn, is there?" Holmes said, waving his arm at the narrow path of the garden. "Ride back and forth on this a few minutes and then we shall go out onto the lane."

Mrs. Hudson and Wynona stood on the back step, watching as Mr. Holmes held the seat of the bicycle and instructed Billy on the proper way to mount and dismount and then on how to ride. Not much actual work got done that morning, but no one minded.


	5. Stew

**AN** : The Granada production of 'The Hound of the Baskervilles' starring Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke contains a scene involving stew. This story is directly inspired by that scene and the subtle and excellent performances of both actors.

 **AN** : In order to keep some suspense for those thoroughly familiar with canon, the prompt and a quote from a canon work will be at the end of the story.

* * *

 **Stew**

On very rare occasions Mrs. Hudson, to please her tenant and to prevent damage to the upstairs rooms, would allow Mr. Holmes to make use of her kitchen, pots, pans and the range. After Mr. Holmes had once succeeded in preparing an American dish called "cornbread" which involved maize rather than corn and looked very little like bread, the good landlady was willing to risk letting him have a second go at a dish.

"Everyone, take your places!" called Holmes, bustling about and stirring the contents of a large pot.

Billy trotted in still carrying the cloth he had been using to wipe the front windows. Wynona first poked her head in uncertainly and sniffed. Her expression, had Holmes seen it, would have given him pause to reconsider the wisdom of this particular experiment.

"Go on, girl," Mrs. Hudson said, gently pushing the maid into the dining room. "Find your seat."

"Ma'am?" the girl said, grimacing uncertainly.

"Find. Your. Seat," said the landlady through her teeth. Turning to look up the stairs, she asked sternly, "Dr. Watson?"

"On my way," he said and came down the stairs smiling. Like Wynona he sniffed before entering.

"Watson! Excellent!" cried Holmes. "I told you this was better when warm."

"I have no doubt," said Watson. He held Mrs. Hudson's chair then took the seat at the head of the table.

Holmes busied himself dispensing generous ladles of stew. It steamed nicely, had a very creamy consistency and… fit in the bowls?

"Well everyone?" he asked, smiling encouragement.

"It's… nice," said Wynona without a shred of enthusiasm.

Holmes bit his lower lip and looked to Billy, whom he could always rely upon.

"It's, um, brownish." Billy looked up and smiled awkwardly. "I like brown."

"Mr. Holmes, are these lima beans?" asked Mrs. Hudson, using her spoon much as a prosector would use a scalpel.

"Yes! The original recipe does not call for them, but I felt their absorbent nature would help thicken the stew."

"And these are string beans?" she asked, shooting Holmes a disconcerted look.

"Yes," he said. "There are also bits of carrot and some cubed pork."

"Pork, sir?" Wynona asked, setting aside her spoon.

"In stew?" said Billy.

"Oh yes," Holmes said, enthusiastically. He rubbed his hands as if warming to the subject. "It's from an Irish recipe!"

"This is Irish stew?" Mrs. Hudson was still dissecting the contents of her bowl.

"We aren't Irish," put in Billy, finally lifting his spoon to have a taste.

"Why does it smell of vinegar?" asked Wynona.

"I wanted it to have some zip!" Holmes was looking seriously concerned.

Mrs. Hudson set aside her spoon and took a sip of water. Wynona, picking up her spoon once more, froze on the verge of trying a mouthful. Her intention unresolved. Billy seemed fascinated by the stew's consistency, lifting small quantities from the bowl and dripping them back. Holmes looked to Watson hopefully.

"Holmes," Watson pronounced with no little sympathy. "Norbury."

* * *

~ * 0 * ~

* * *

Sherlock Holmes, 'The Adventure of the Yellow Face' - "Watson, if it should ever strike you that I am getting a little overconfident in my powers, or giving less pains to a case than it deserves, kindly whisper 'Norbury' in my ear, and I shall be infinitely obliged to you."

Prompt from Madam'zelleG: Norbury


	6. The Mystery of the Baker's Kitchen

Prompt from cjnwriter: A baking mishap

* * *

 **AN** : I have really been wanting to write another case fic and was able to transform an innocuous prompt into something more in my line. I hope you enjoy it.

* * *

 **The Mystery of the Baker's Kitchen**

It was a typical cold winter's day, that 6th of December, when Holmes and I were summoned to a country residence west of London. To spare any embarrassment, for there were young people involved who have grown, I will substitute names for the actual persons' and places'. Our old friend Gregson had already been alerted and the Yard was on the scene in full force. A local constable stood guard at the gate when Holmes and I drew up in our rented dog cart.

"You be Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson?" the man asked.

"Indeed," said Holmes. "Tell me, Constable, what is the nature of this business? We had no details in the correspondence."

"The nature of it?" The constable shook his head as if perplexed. He fixed Holmes with a steady eye and went on seriously, "Could be the devil came to pay a call, sir, I don't know. Sir Richard reckons it to be an assassination. Seems mighty peculiar to me, I don't mind saying."

Holmes thanked the man and I stirred up our pony, a game, dun colored Welsh cob I would quite liked to have owned, had we a place to keep her. Holmes said nothing while we traversed the long drive, lined on either side by a low hedge. The fields, now covered in a layer of snow, were occupied only by a scattering of sheep and a pair of horses who lingered close to their thatch roofed barn.

The house was a large brick manor home, typical of the Regency period. At the portico I was directed around the side of the house by another constable standing guard. Rounding the corner we finally discovered Gregson and several men working to hang a tarpaulin over the empty window and doorway of what turned out to be the kitchen.

"Great Scott!" I ejaculated upon seeing the door lying in the snow and the scorched, glassless frames.

"Quite so, Watson," said Holmes, rising even before I had stopped our pony. A young man came and took her headstall while we dismounted.

"Mr. Holmes! Dr. Watson!" Gregson greeted us with outstretched hand. "I don't mind telling you I am sorely glad you agreed to aid me on this one."

"The constable at the gate told us Sir Richard thinks this could be an attempted Assassination," said Holmes, shaking Gregson's hand. "I had not expected this sort of thing, though."

"Nor I, sir." The inspector seemed unusually out of sorts. I had always known him to be a steady man and yet when our hands met, his trembled slightly. "Come, gentlemen, and see the inside. We have removed the victim, but otherwise I order nothing was to be touched."

Entering we found a well-appointed kitchen in such a state of smash as I have never in my life seen. It was peculiar in that the larger items, the range, the oven, the butcher block and the like, appeared to be unmoved, though scorched. Shelves, though, were knocked about. Utensils lay scattered among the detritus on the floor. A row of at least a dozen unbaked loaves lay in a grotesque line on the floor, rising in spite of being scorched and filthy. A layer of blackened dust seemed to cover everything. Looking about I discovered the plastered walls were cracked and a tin ceiling tile hung loose at one corner.

"As you can see, Mr. Holmes, there was an explosion," Gregson said, once we were inside.

"A gas line?" I asked.

"No, Doctor. No gas in the entire house." Gregson glanced over his shoulder at the servants who were putting up the tarpaulin and stepped closer to us. "Between you and me, gentlemen, Sir Richard is a frugal man, if you understand me. This is not his permanent residence, as his duties require him to live in the city most of the year."

"Assistant to the Secretary of War, is he not?" Holmes asked, still examining the wreckage.

"He is," said Gregson. "That's why he believes this was an attempt on his life."

"Was he in the kitchen when this happened?" I asked.

"No, Doctor. As a matter of fact there was only one victim and he is remarkably lucky to be alive." Gregson took out his notebook and read, "Arthur Campbell. He's the footman's son. A great pity. The boy is only thirteen."

"Footman's son? What was he doing in here?"

"Cleaning." Gregson shook his head. "Odd he should be doing that. Seems to me it would be one of the maids or the cook cleaning the kitchen."

"You have questioned the cook?" asked Holmes.

"She was in hysterics," Gregson said. "The doctor ordered her to bed with a sedative."

"And young Arthur?"

"Incoherent, Mr. Holmes. Under the doctor's care."

"Watson, arrange to speak with the doctor," said Holmes. "Learn when we will be able to interview the cook and the lad, as well. Have you any observations?"

"I've never seen anything like it, Holmes. If we were in London or some other city, I would say this was the action of an anarchist. Out here, so far from a population, I don't know."

"An anarchist?" mused Gregson. "A bomb thrower such as is depicted in the popular press?"

"Hardly thrown," said Holmes. "Gregson, you and your men moved nothing save for Arthur Campbell. Is that right?"

"It is," said Gregson. "We had to tread on the floor, of course, but there was a necessity."

"I understand and there is no blame in that." Holmes indicated the large, hardwood table a pace from the oven. "You notice how the table is askew?"

"Sir?"

"This kitchen was an orderly place before the disaster," said Holmes stepping round the end of the table to look underneath. "It would be in character for the table to be aligned parallel with the walls."

"We did not touch it, sir," said Gregson. "Perhaps it was one of the servants who moved it."

"Or it could have been shifted by the blast," I suggested. "While in Afghanistan I saw artillery shells throw boulders and trees into the air."

"An excellent point, Watson. I agree. Please, speak with the doctor and report back to me. I will remain here to learn what I can."

I was conducted by a wide eyed maid who still trembled to one of the servant's rooms. There a man of my own years hovered over a young lad wrapped round with bandages.

"I am Dr. John Watson," I introduced myself.

"Dr. Lawson, Stephen Lawson," he said. "Has Sir Richard sent for you? Are you a burn specialist?"

"I am not here to take over treatment," I said and explained my position and what Holmes desired.

"I see," Lawson said. "Young Campbell is not as badly off as his bandages may make him appear. His hands and face were scorched, but most everything else is little more than singed. He's lost the majority of his hair."

"Poor lad," I interjected.

"It should all grow back," Lawson assured me. "What concerns me far more are his eyes. He may have been blinded. I have applied cooling wraps and sedated him so he may rest, but as you know, Dr. Watson, eye wounds are among the most painful."

"Indeed they are," I readily agreed. "I've treated enough of them. Is that why you asked if I were a specialist?"

"Yes. I rather hoped you were. I shall need to find one if this boy is to have any hope of seeing."

"I see blood on the bandages over his ears," I said. "Eardrums burst?"

"Both of them."

Dr. Lawson and I discussed possible treatments and I made a few suggestions on specialists I was acquainted with in London and one man in Edinburgh I believed could be of special help. I asked if he needed any supplies, offering him what medicines I had in my bag, but he assured me he was fully stocked. I then inquired about the cook, explaining Holmes wished to interview her.

"Simple shock and general distress. I gave instructions she should have brandy and be made to lie down," Lawson said. "Campbell here has taken up all my time. I think it would be all right for you to speak with her. I rely on you, though, to use your best judgement."

All this I told Holmes when I reported back to him in the kitchen. By then the tarpaulin had been hung in place, casting the room into gloom. Holmes held a bullseye lantern, shining it on the floor where the unbaked loaves lay.

"Very good, Watson," said he. "Do you note anything of significance here?"

I looked. Holmes squatted and panned the beam of the lantern back and forth over the loaves.

"They look like unbaked dough," I said. "Nothing significant in that, is there?"

"Not the loaves, Doctor," he said. "What is under and around them?"

"Black dust. Soot."

"Scorched flour." He ran a finger lightly through the dust before him and held it up for my examination.

"It's white underneath?" I was astonished. With all the blackening and destruction I would never have guessed that.

"What does that tell you, Watson?"

"The flour must have been on the floor before the bomb went off."

"Before the explosion. Yes."

"Holmes? You've deduced something?"

"Yes. I am all but certain I know what happened here. I want a few more facts, though, to know how it happened."

"So there was no bomb? No assassination attempt?"

"Assassination?" Holmes snorted derisively. "Hardly, Watson. Sir Richard is not important enough to assassinate. No. There was no bomb. Not in the way you mean."

"I do not understand how there could have been an explosion, then," I said, looking about again. "Without a gas line, what other than a bomb explains this destruction?"

"Carelessness and a lack of knowledge," said Holmes. He rose and made for the servants quarters, but stopped in his tracks to examine the tiles in the hallway. I was curious, but Holmes redoubled his pace and I had to lengthen my stride to keep up.

The cook, a matronly woman named Mrs. Adgate, had refused to lie down. We found her clutching her Bible and a small glass of sherry, staring at her wall. After we were announced by a scullery maid I took a few minutes to examine Mrs. Adgate.

"You really should have lain down for a while, you know," I said gently. "Would have done your nerves a world of good."

"No, sir, Doctor," she said. "This sherry is more than I ought to have had. I don't deserve it. That boy… That boy!"

"Calm yourself!" I pushed her back down into her chair and moved her glass to her lips. "That's it. Now, you must remain calm. I know it is distressing, but you will do no good upsetting yourself."

"Very well, Doctor," she said and hung her head, silently weeping.

Only after several minutes did I feel we could safely risk asking her anything.

"Gently, Holmes," I cautioned. "She is very delicate."

"Of course," he agreed and turned to the poor woman. "Mrs. Adgate, how long were the children playing in the kitchen?"

"I don't know," she said. "I heard them laughing and carrying on before I reached the door." Her eyes came into focus and she looked at Holmes. "Who told you the children were playing in the kitchen, sir?"

"Their footprints informed me, madam," Holmes said. "I saw the traces of flour in the hallway. I know there were two little girls and I know they were covered in white flour meant for baking."

"Fair covered in the stuff," she said. "Looked like two little ghosts, sir! And now poor Arthur is going to be a ghost!"

Mrs. Adgate swallowed the last of her sherry and began crying desperately. I sat her back in her chair and soothed her as best I could, but she would not settle.

"Holmes, get me a glass of water!" From my bag I took a mild sedative, it had to be mild due to the sherry, and I hoped it would be enough to get her into bed.

Holmes returned with the water and the scullery maid. Once Mrs. Adgate had swallowed the pill I helped transfer her to the bed and took Holmes out into the hallway. He had to wait while I wrote a note for Dr. Lawson, but soon we were on our way to the governess. We found her after inquiring of the butler who escorted us to the nursery. Miss Felton was the governess's name and she had her charges well in hand. A pair of young girls not quite in their teens labored over sheets of paper, writing furiously. Their curly heads were still damp from washing and they did not look up when Holmes and I entered.

"How may I be of assistance, Mr. Holmes?" Miss Felton asked in a low tone.

"The children, they were in the kitchen prior to the explosion, were they not?"

"Yes," she said, a catch in her voice. "It is so fortunate Mrs. Adgate happened to get them out of there when she did."

"Indeed," Holmes commiserated. "She told us the girls were covered in baking flour."

"I am afraid I have been unable to instill perfect ladylike decorum in them," she said. "Eliza and Bernadette are full of mischief. Bernadette also seems unable to leave poor Arthur Campbell alone."

"Do you know the circumstances leading up to the girls being dusted with flour?" asked Holmes.

"From what I gather, Arthur was in the kitchen stacking wood for the oven. Mrs. Adgate intended to bake bread this afternoon. She had already prepared the dough and portioned out the loaves. I believe she was having Arthur prepare the oven. As Eliza tells me, Bernadette decided to have a bit of fun. The pair of them snuck up on Arthur and tossed handfuls of flour on him. Naturally, Arthur retaliated, never mind that they are Sir Richard's children and he only a footman's boy. Well, it is nothing that has not happened before. Not this precisely, but you understand."

"Yes," said Holmes. "So the children engaged in throwing flour at one another. Mrs. Adgate interrupted them and ended the exchange."

"That's right," Miss Felton said, smiling warmly. "Mrs. Adgate scolded Arthur and told him to get the oven lit and then clean up the kitchen. She brought the girls to me and while I was preparing them for their baths the explosion occurred. You can imagine what it has been like since then."

"Yes. Even now Inspector Gregson is speaking with Sir Richard and Lady Emelia," said Holmes. "They are naturally quite distressed. Would you be so kind as to direct us towards the library?"

We followed Miss Felton's directions down to the main floor and to the farthest end of the house from the kitchen. A constable stood outside the library and announced us when we asked to enter. The library was a fine example of the sort of room. Tall bookshelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling and one wall was composed of magnificently tall windows letting in the late afternoon's winter sun.

Sir Richard and a plump woman I took to be Lady Emilia sat regally side by side in comfortable chairs while Gregson stood off to one side. Gregson introduced Holmes and myself.

"I know of you, Mr. Holmes," said Sir Richard. "You've a good reputation. Pleased, I am, you've taken an interest in this attempt on my life. You will be discreet, I am sure. Don't want this in the papers. Think of my reputation. The Secretary would be scandalized!"

"I feel certain we can keep it out of the papers, Sir Richard." Holmes smiled thinly.

"These radicals will try anything! Bold of them to come here to my country home!"

"It would be, if they had come, Sir Richard," said Holmes.

"If they had come? If?" Sir Richard surged to his feet and thrust out his chest indignantly. "Explain yourself!"

"You formerly were a captain in Her Majesty's Engineering Corpse, Sir Richard," said Holmes calmly. "In your years of service, did you ever read of the Confederate retreat from the Federal forces of the United States during their Civil War?"

"Naturally," Sir Richard said, puffing out his chest even more. "Required reading. Some of those Confederate officers were ingenious and daring in their efforts to disengage and slip away."

"I agree," said Holmes. "And the Confederate engineers were extremely intelligent in their campaign to leave nothing of military use for the Federals. One method they employed was to place large sacks of flour in the rafters of barns and warehouses. By nailing or otherwise securing the bottoms of the sacks to the rafters and fastening a line to the open end, they could dump the flour out. The flour would naturally leave clouds of dust and with the barn doors closed, it would linger in the air long enough for the engineers to detonate a small charge of gunpowder."

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Sir Richard. "Is that what you think?"

"Darling?" Lady Emilia said, touching her husband's wrist. "What does he mean? I do not understand."

"Mr. Holmes, would you?" Sir Richard asked. His face had gone pale. "I am afraid I need a moment to take it in."

"Certainly, Sir Richard," said Holmes, turning to address Lady Emilia. "Madam, because flour is ground into a very fine powder, it hangs in the air. Flour is also combustible. When a flame is introduced to such an atmosphere the particles of flour nearest it catch fire. The flames spread from particle to particle in rapid succession resulting in the sort of explosion that destroyed your kitchen and nearly took the life of young Arthur Campbell."

Lady Emilia sat stunned into silence, her expression disbelieving. Sir Richard turned to her and grasped her hand.

"Mr. Holmes, Inspector Gregson and you, too, Dr. Watson, I thank you," he said, not looking at us. "I beg, though, that not a word of this gets to the girls. They were frightened enough when the explosion occurred. We have not yet told them of Arthur's condition. I think, if they understood the part they played, they might be inconsolable."

Holmes and I agreed to allow Sir Richard to decide what his daughters should learn and when. Gregson thanked us and we departed. On the long trip back I asked Holmes what had told him it was only an accident.

"We knew almost from the first, Watson, that it was not a gas line explosion because there was no gas laid on in the home," he said, getting out his pipe. "I almost as quickly eliminate the possibility of it being a bomb because there were no signs of a bomb other than the explosion."

"I reasoned that out, Holmes," I said. "You asked Gregson if he or his men had moved the table. I know it was out of place, but you took him at his word when he said they had not. Why?"

"You saw the table was out of its place, Watson, but you did not look under it. The feet had dragged through the scatter of flour. Of course the flour was not thick down there, but there was some. I also noticed how so much of the flour was scorched and the flour under the table was also scorched. It was scorched brown, though, not black."

"Which indicates it did not actually catch fire," I said.

"Not the way the particles in the air did," he said. "It told me the flame was conducted along the particles, though."

"Was it the explosion that shifted the table?" I asked.

"I surmise it was young Campbell. Imagine the scene, Watson. The boy has just been scolded for having fun. He did not start the game, and surely in his eyes he is blameless for the mess, yet Mrs. Adgate commands him to clean it. Meanwhile, the girls who did start the row are being toddled off and will not be punished. The door to the firebox on the oven is open and Arthur is squatting in front of. He strikes a match and instead of the small flame he is accustomed to he gets a fireball. He has no hope of escaping it, but being young and quick he does jump back."

"And runs into the heavy table, shifting it," I said. "I had no idea flour could be so dangerous."

"I knew, but I have never seen it in person," said Holmes. "The Confederates brought down entire buildings by intentionally dumping flour into the air. Luckily for Sir Richard and his family this was only a baking mishap."


	7. The Mystery of the Frozen Pool

Prompt from mrspencil: snow on Dartmoor

* * *

AN: I am not entirely satisfied with this one. With two prompts waiting to be addressed, I don't feel I can spend any more time tweaking it, though. I hope it makes sense and that readers will enjoy the story.

* * *

 **The Mystery of the Frozen Pool**

"Not where I would have expected to find him," Dr. John Watson observed, looking down at the bizarre corpse with its blackened skin covered in hoarfrost.

"Your report, that is, the report submitted by Inspector Lestrade indicated Stapleton had run off into the mire, sir," Inspector Skyler of the Coombe Tracey Constabulary said. "This is the mire."

"Yes, but it is the wrong part. We followed his track from Merripit House." Watson lifted his eyes from the disturbing corpse to look over the rolling, snow-blanketed landscape. "I cannot even see Merripit House from here. It is in that direction, over the hill, is it not?"

"Yes. According to my survey map, it is." Skyler slid his hand inside his ulster and withdrew a tightly folded sheet of heavy paper. He fussed with it half a minute, finally getting it to lay more or less flat between his hands. Peering at the map and then up at the overcast sky, he asked, "You don't happen to know which way is north, do you, Doctor?"

In answer Watson pulled a small brass compass from his pocket and held it out for the inspector to read.

"You are correct," Skyler said, running his finger over the map. "Merripit House is that way. Baskerville Hall is over there. And in that direction lies Lafter Hall."

"I thought so." Watson studied the face of the corpse. How had it lasted this long? Why had the eyes not been pecked out by ravens? Surely foxes should have fed upon it. And yet it was intact, virtually unchanged save for the blackening of the skin.

"Dr. Watson, what do you think?"

"Are you asking how he got here?"

"That and why does he look the way he does? It's been three years, sir. This just is not natural."

"Inspector Skyler, nothing about the Baskerville case was precisely natural." Watson sighed, his old anxieties returning. "We followed Stapleton's track into the mire. We followed it until it disappeared in a brackish pool much like this one would be in summer. We were fortunate not to become trapped ourselves on the way to the old tin mine where he had kenneled the hound. Holmes, as I recall, went waist deep at one point and I sank in past my knees."

"That has to be miles from here," Skyler said, squinting at the distant hill.

"It is miles from here and I have no explanation for Stapleton's body ending up in this pool." Watson shook his head. He actually had an explanation, but he would not voice it. It would sound far too much like a fireside tale. Moreover, he did not want to believe it. "Inspector, you will need several men, a sled and pickaxes to get the body out of here. And before it can be properly examined, it will need to thaw."

"About the examination," Skyler said hesitantly.

"Yes?"

"Dr. Mortimer is gone with his wife until after Christmas. Visiting relations in the North somewhere."

"Very well." Watson's shoulders sagged. He knew what the inspector was asking of him. "I have nothing pressing in London. I will stay until the examination can be performed."

"Thank you, Doctor! Come, we will return to the village. Morning is soon enough to get him out."

"I feel in the mood to stretch my legs, Inspector. Might I borrow your map? There are places I would revisit while I am here."

"Certainly, Doctor. In winter the moor is no place for a solitary walk, though."

"I remember where the roads are. Indulge me. I promise to be careful."

Watson struck out along what had to be a sheep track. Because it was sunken in relation to the surrounding terrain it was easy to follow, even with the thick layer of snow. He crested the ridge that had masked Merripit House, sank his stick into a drift and looked back to where Stapleton's body lay at the edge of the frozen pool. Perhaps if snow were not falling in the distance, he might have been able to see Baskerville Hall. Lafter Hall was a vague grey shape on its hilltop and between were the huts of the Stone Age village, looking for all the world like muscle shells poking up on a white sand beach.

"How the devil did he get in that pool?" Watson asked aloud. If Holmes were there, he would come up with some perfectly plausible answer. Holmes would know why the villain's skin had turned black. Holmes would explain it all away. But Holmes was not there. He had gone over the falls.

Watson tore his mind away from the loss, desperate to forget for a time. He had lost too much. Beneath his inverness he wore black. Black for Mary. Again he rebelled at the memory. He must get away from it! He must relieve this oppressive emotion. He must.

Looking at the distant falling snow he wondered what it would be like to simply walk into that and never return. He could do it. Inspector Skyler would assume he had lost his way. No one would ever know what really happened to him. He could become another of the mysteries of Dartmoor. A hundred years on people would still tell the tale and children would frighten each other with stories of a phantom doctor wandering among the heather.

A movement below caught his attention. He narrowed his eyes, looking among the stone huts of the prehistoric village, seeing nothing. Something had moved, he was sure, but it was not moving now. He suddenly regretted leaving his field glasses behind. They were a good pair with lenses made in France. Those lenses were doing him no good sitting on his bed at the inn.

Thoughts of lenses brought to mind old Mr. Franklin of Lafter Hall and his telescope. The man had not been among Watson's favorite Grimpen residents, but nostalgia cast a warmer light upon the old curmudgeon. Perhaps, with his long tenure on the moor, Franklin would have some insight as to what could account for Stapleton being found miles from where he had disappeared.

An hour's walk through shin deep snow brought Watson to the doorstep of Lafter Hall. He was in fair training and only just past middle age, yet the cold and wind had tried him sorely. He was grateful to just be in the lee of the building, sheltered from the worst of the wind. To his surprise the large door opened before he had a chance to knock.

"I know you," said the gaunt, mustachioed master of the hall. "You were here once."

"Yes, Mr. Franklin," Watson said, unwinding his scarf enough to show his face. "I am John Watson, Dr. John Watson, and I was a guest of Sir Henry Baskerville when he first came to claim his inheritance."

"Come in, come in!" Franklin urged, waving eagerly and looking past Watson's shoulder as if expecting more guests to materialize.

The interior of the hall was much the same as it had been. Perhaps it was bit dustier. Not surprisingly Watson could still see his breath. These old stone piles were expensive to heat and if Franklin was alone with his servants, likely only his apartments and their quarters would be warm.

"This way, Doctor!" Franklin urged. "Come, come! I have news! Something no one knows! I used my telescope to see! I saw you on the hill! I saw it too! Come! Come and I will show you!"

Years ago Franklin had spied out Holmes's hiding place using his powerful glass. Watson now wondered if the old fellow had learned of Stapleton's body by the same method. It was possible, but there was something distinctly peculiar about the old fellow's behavior. Several times as they mounted the stairs to the third floor Franklin turned eager, frantic grins on Watson. He was obviously agitated nearly to the point of being manic.

"This way, Doctor!" Franklin said and swung open the door to his private rooms. "I will show you! If only I had a camera that could focus at this distance I would have proof!"

"Proof of what, Mr. Franklin?" Watson asked. This apartment was considerably warmer than the rest of the house and Watson immediately stripped off his inverness and scarf.

"You and that fellow, what was his name?" Franklin snapped his fingers and shook his head.

"Sir Henry?" Watson ventured.

"No! The other one. The famous one!"

"Holmes?"

"That was him!" Franklin jabbed a finger in the air by way of punctuation. "You and that Holmes fellow killed it. We all saw the body. Everyone in the village went by the church to have a look. But it is not dead, Doctor. It is not dead."

"Mr. Franklin, what on earth do you mean?" Watson cast his things upon the chair next to the low hearth and crossed the room to where the old man stood beside his long brass telescope.

"It was out there when you stood upon the hill an hour ago," the old man said, putting his eye to the scope. "It is not out there now, though."

"What is not out there?"

"The Hound! The Hound, man!" Franklin scowled up at Watson and put his eye back to the scope. "No one would believe me, but you might. You've seen it up close. You and Holmes shot it."

For several seconds Watson could not credit his ears. He stood, aghast, thinking Franklin, in his isolation, had cracked. But had he not himself entertained similar thoughts?

"I'm not mad, Doctor," said the old man. "I know what I saw. I can still tell a hawk from a handsaw and I know there is something more than snow upon the moor. When the moon is right and the wind not too strong I can even hear the cries of its victim."

"Good God," breathed Watson. "What are you saying?"

Franklin finally gave up his searching and looked at Watson. He seemed to make up his mind and nodded.

"You are right to doubt me," he said. "If this were a case before a court, I could provide no proof. Come, Doctor, I will ring for something hot. Beef broth and buttered toast or barley soup if you like. Something better than thin tea and a few biscuits on a day like this. Brandy while we wait."

The maid came and Franklin told her what was wanted and then he and Watson settled to either side of the fire. With warm snifters in their fingers and comfortable blankets over their laps Franklin began his explanation.

"It started the winter following your visit to Grimpen, Doctor. Out on the moor all was quiet until after the turning of the year. Someone in the village told a wild tale of seeing a black hound the size of a calf pursuing a man across the tor. I doubt much credence was given to the tale. I know I personally scoffed, thinking it was only ignorance and superstition. It was not until late in the winter I saw something, a shadow moving at great speed from valley to hilltop, I began to suspect there was anything at all to the story."

"A shadow?" asked Watson.

"A shadow and little more," said Franklin. "I decided it must have been a large bird and that my eyes were playing tricks. It left no prints in the snow, so how could it be anything but a bird?"

"Clearly you have changed your mind."

"I have." Franklin swallowed his brandy and refilled his glass. "I caught one other glimpse of it that winter and no more. I still believed I was seeing some bird or other. It was not until spring came when I had new evidence. The days were warm enough to open these windows and let in fresh air. I was enjoying the evening breeze and reading here by the hearth in May when a scream carried faintly from somewhere out on the moor. I was so disturbed I went to the window. The moon was bright and full and there were few clouds. Out there, not far from the ancient village, I saw the figures as described in the winter tale. A man running in a mad rush and the hound following. I put my eye to my lens, but it was too late. They had slipped beyond the hill and I lost them."

"Could it have been some prankster? A fatm boy out playing with his dog, perhaps?"

"I asked myself the same thing, Doctor. I did. And I tried to convince myself that was all it was. I am not a superstitious man. Over the last several years evidence has presented itself that compels me to believe the Hound in incorporeal form, lingers."

"I don't wish to call you a liar, Mr. Franklin, but surely there is some other explanation. I am a man of science. This seems too much."

"I know just what you mean," said Franklin. "But let me ask you, do you recall the Baskerville legend?"

"Wicked Sir Hugo and the maiden, you mean?"

"Precisely."

"Hugo Baskerville kidnapped a young girl and would have done worse to her had she not risked all and escaped. When he discovered she had flown he called for his hounds and horse and pursued. When a group of his friends found him, the girl was dead and a great black hound was tearing at Sir Hugo. The friends were never the same and the legend of the Hound was born."

"In a nutshell you are correct," Franklin said. He pointed vaguely towards the window. "Where you and that fool of an inspector stood, earlier today, is the very pool beside which the maiden was found and the wicked Sir Hugo died."

Watson frowned into the fire, calling up what memories he had of his time at Baskerville Hall. Stapleton himself had guided Sir Henry and Watson across the moor to a place supposed to be the killing ground. Rising, Watson went to the telescope. He peered through it, seeking Baskerville Hall. A dark shape was all he could see of it. Tracing a line from the hall to the pool it sank home. Franklin was correct. It was the same pool.

"Enough of this for now, Doctor," Franklin said. "Have warm food and I will give you a flask of hot coffee to take with you. You have a long walk back to the village."

Watson joined Mr. Franklin in a repast and then donned his coat and hat and took up his walking stick. It was time to go, and time to learn what he could.

Retracing his course through the snow he found his tracks already obscured but not so much that he got lost. The afternoon was drawing on towards an early winter evening and Watson debated the wisdom of his intended actions. Still, the stone huts were not far out of his path. He could certainly find his way to the hilltop and thence to Grimpen even in late evening. And he was armed. Carrying his old Adams service revolver had become a habit for him when he accompanied Holmes on so many of their adventures. And Mary had frequently reminded him to take it. He smiled at the memory of intentionally leaving it in his desk so that she would bring it to him at the door. They would kiss, she would admonish him to be careful and he would swear he would.

"No need to be careful anymore," he told the oncoming night.

Descending to the ancient settlement he stabbed the earth before him, seeking solid footing. His eyes constantly scanned the land ahead of him and his ears were pricked for any sound, howl or scream. In the fold of the hill twilight had already come. Shirtless Celts painted in woad, conjured by Watson's mind, stared at him from the shadows. Still he pressed on through the snow and the gloom. And then his destination came in sight. He paused in his trek and recalled his friend's words almost as clearly as if Holmes were there speaking them.

"…for when I see the stub of a cigarette marked Bradley, Oxford Street, I know that my friend Watson is in the neighborhood."

"Would that you were in my neighborhood now, Holmes. Would that you were," he said and took from his pocket his silver cigarette case and from it a cigarette. He lit it and as if in token to his friend he held the match up, letting the wind blow it out.

On up to the low doorway from which he had emerged those several years back, Watson climbed. His leg bothered him, but he ignored the ache. In the shelter of the doorway he was out of the snow and most of the wind and he could see the hilltop clearly. The snow had not been a heavy fall throughout the day and now it slackened to almost nothing. The evening was quiet and bleak. The setting sun finally dropped below the clouds and shone across the moor, casting it in stark relief. Beauty enough to take a man's breath away. Watson rose up and marveled.

The magic of the moment was broke an instant later. A chuffing as of a huge dog sounded and Watson turned. Crouching in a shadowed nook of the hillside he spied what he knew could not be. Needing no thought to compel it, his hand emerged from his pocket holding death. The maw of the old Adams revolver held level and steady, awaiting permission to speak. The Hound shifted uneasily as if recognizing the thing in the doctor's hand.

"I killed you," Watson said, his words as cold and lifeless as the country around him. "Holmes and I killed you. You are not real."

The Hound glared and growled.

"You are not real."

White teeth flashed and phosphorescent spittle frothed.

"You are not real!" shouted Watson, stepping from his shelter. His hand held steady though all else shook with a contained energy he had not felt since before Reichenbach. "You are not real."

A scream of utter terror shattered the air. Too startled to obey reason, Watson's head snapped around. His eyes went wide, his muscles froze and his thoughts ceased to flow. Across the shallow valley and up the low hill sprinted John Stapleton, his coat tails flying. Behind followed the Hound.

Watson's eyes snapped back to the shadow where the creature had been lurking. It was gone!

"Impossible," he said. "Impossible."

When he could finally bring himself to return to the sheep path and climb the hill, he cast about for any sign whatever. The snow lay undisturbed, thick and heavy. Only the remnants of his earlier passing showed at all. When he reached the top of the hill he looked down at the black, frozen pool where Stapleton's body lay. Had he really seen the Hound? Was it nothing more than a vision brought on by Franklin's suggestion? There was no physical proof. No evidence. He did not know. Perhaps it was an hallucination.

Perhaps.

Perhaps, and yet he had discovered one thing. It had been thrilling! Thrilling to be in the thick of an adventure again. It felt right to be out of his comfortable practice. He felt useful for more than passing out pills and setting bones. This adventure had reminded Watson what it was like before his grief came.

With more energy in his stride than he would have credited only hours before, Watson made his way back to the hamlet of Grimpen. The inn was warm and the landlord was happy to serve him a good stew in his rooms while he soaked his feet in a tub of steaming water.

"Come in!" Watson called when a knock came an hour later.

"Good evening, Doctor," Inspector Skyler said, entering. "I was worried about you. Are you well?"

"Quite well, Inspector. Much better for my walk."

"Excellent. I am glad to hear it."

"Why have you come? Just to check up on me? Can I offer you whiskey?"

"No thank you, sir. I do not wish to keep you long. I did want to pass on a bit of information another inspector sent me, though. He has had some dealings in the past with bodies being found in bogs. Seems in ancient times people would fall in or would be murdered, you understand. Well, these days when peat cutters are harvesting turfs they will come across some such body. Some are so well preserved the workers mistake them for recent victims. Shocking, you can imagine."

"I see," said Watson. "It must be some property of the brackish water."

"If I understand my friend's message correctly, it is."

"Well, that could certainly explain Stapleton's coloring."

"But it does not explain how his body ended up in that pool." Skyler cocked his head inquisitively. "Have you, after your long walk, had any further insights?"

Watson debated what to say. He had no proof of anything. Holmes had once stated that there was no place for ghosts in detection and logically, Watson agreed.

"Inspector, pending examination, I think the most logical theory is that after he drowned Stapleton's body was dragged into a subterranean stream. The stream empties into that pool. His body simply floated to the surface. Like the blackening of his skin, there is no real mystery to it."

Skyler was not wholly satisfied, but when the medical examination was completed no other plausible explanation could be found. Skyler added his report to Lestrade's and Watson returned to London. A few days later he applied to Scotland Yard for a position as a police surgeon. A word or two from old friends like Lestrade and Gregson and he was in. His days were little different, but they were brighter.


	8. Knot

Prompt from mrspencil: Holmes learns a new skill to impress Watson

* * *

"Well?" Holmes all but purred, peering at his friend over his steepled fingers and smiling that knowing smile of his.

"You told me to not open it, Holmes. You sit there smiling smugly and won't even allow me to pick it up." Watson leaned back on the chaise and sighed. "How am I supposed to answer if I am unable to examine it?"

"Use your eyes, Watson."

"My eyes? Am I supposed to magically see through the wrapping and the box? You are being ridiculous, Holmes. Really."

"Watson, just use your eyes," said Holmes, sitting up in his chair and pulling his old briar pipe from his pocket. "Examine the package as a whole and tell me what you see."

"What I see?" Watson sat forward on the edge of the chaise and squinted at the blue wrapping paper and the scarlet cord holding it snug around the cubical box within. Sudden he frowned and leaned even closer to the package. He licked his lips and shot a quizzical look at Holmes who smiled with satisfaction. "The knot?"

"Indeed, Watson," said Holmes, finally striking a match and lighting his pipe. "What do you think?"

"I think it is a knot, Holmes."

"Oh poo, poo, Watson. Bad show, old fellow."

"Very well. It is an uncommonly large knot. I judge it to be approximately two and one half inches long. Perhaps as much as half an inch wide in places. How much cord did you use on this?"

"Difficult to say precisely, but overall, four feet seven inches."

"Good Lord! This box cannot be more than five inches to a side!"

"Five and one quarter inches, actually." Holmes smiled proudly, almost gleefully. "The knot took me forty-three minutes to create."

"Forty-three minutes?"

"I spent all last week designing it, Watson. Quite the challenge."

"Challenge?"

"You are impressed."

"That would be one word for it," said Watson, picking up the box and digging in his waistcoat pocket.

"Well," said Holmes, puffing out a cloud of grey-blue smoke. "In your stories you always go on about complex sailors' knots."

"My readers happen to like complex sailors' knots."

"Sailors do not use complex knots, Watson. They use knots that are both efficient and effective. There really is nothing more complicated about them than one of your suture knots. I simply wanted to show you how complex knots can be if one puts his mind to it. What are you doing?"

"Think of this as preserving the integrity of your design," Watson said and opened his clasp knife.

"No! Wait!" Holmes lunged for Watson's hand and was too late. Scowling, he said, "I had hoped you would take the time to undo it."

"I did," said Watson and put his knife away.


	9. The Adventure of the Combustible Fruitca

Prompt from cjnwriter: The Adventure of the Combustible Fruitcake

* * *

 **The Adventure of the Combustible Fruitcake**

"Holmes?"

"Watson! You're alive!"

"I cannot see, Holmes! I've been struck blind!"

"No, no, Watson. There are simply no lights."

"Where are we? I cannot remember. How did we get here?"

"I am afraid we are in the sub-cellar of Professor Hackberry. Do you recall that?"

"Hackberry? No, I don't… Wait. Yes, Holmes. We came looking for the missing Bank of England note plates. Hackberry was going to flood the country with worthless pound notes!"

"That's right, Watson. And Hackberry returned while we were down here searching."

"Yes. Of course. But why are there no lights? What became of Hackberry?"

"It seems he was prepared for interlopers. He threw a lever and detonated an explosive device. Along with the printing press, it destroyed the lighting and the staircase, and disabled the cargo lift."

"We're thirty feet below ground, Holmes. What can we do?"

"I used up my matches searching the room, Watson."

"And?"

"Aside from a large, well stocked toolbox, I'm afraid all I found was a crate full of inexpensive, prepackaged fruitcakes and a dozen bottles of very bad vodka."

"Oh. I suppose we will not starve for a few days, at least."

"Watson, it's fruitcake."

"Yes. You're right. Not sure what I was thinking. Must be the lump on my head."

"Do not worry, old friend. I will think of something."

"You have my full confidence, Holmes, but in the meantime, Professor Hackberry is escaping."

"Doubtful. He surely thinks we are dead or at least out of the way. I dare say he will not risk drawing attention to himself by departing immediately after you and I disappear."

"Could we somehow repair the stairs, Holmes?"

"Quite impossible. There are no pieces of sufficient size to build anything."

"What about the lift?"

"I do not think it is badly damaged. I may be able to scavenge parts from what is left of the printing press. I need light to work, though."

"I still have my matches Holmes. We could build a fire with pieces of the staircase."

"No, Watson. We would suffocate on the smoke before ever I got the repair completed."

"There has got to be some answer, Holmes."

"Watson?"

"Yes?"

"Have you your clasp knife?"

"I do."

"Pass it to me, will you?"

"Here. Got it?"

"Yes. Strike a match."

"What are you thinking?"

"The fruitcake, Watson."

"Good God, man! You aren't that desperate, yet!"

"Watson! Strike the match."

Watson drew his matchbox from his waistcoat pocket and duly struck one match. It's meager flame was enough to show Holmes digging through a crate. Just before the match burned Watson's fingers, Holmes tore open one of the packages of fruitcake.

"Do you need me to strike another match, Holmes?"

"Not yet. I can do this part by feel."

"Perhaps you could tell me what you are planning."

"It occurred to me, Watson, that some recipes for fruitcake call for soaking it in spirits and setting it alight before serving."

"Holmes, we can last as much as seven days without food. Perhaps someone will find us before then. No need for drastic measures."

"Do not worry. I have no intention of eating this vile block of gooey, resinous dessert substitute."

"Then what?"

"Come closer and strike another match."

Again, Watson obeyed his friend. This time the light revealed Holmes crouched over a slice of the so called cake with a bottle of vodka in his hand. Immediately he began to pour a steady trickle of the clear alcohol onto the slice. Just when the match was about to burn Watson's fingers Holmes grabbed his hand and forced the flame to the now sodden slice of cake. A vivid blue flame flared up and burned steadily.

"What do you think, now, Watson?"

"Impressive. The cake is acting like a wick. Is it enough light to work by?"

"It will be. And no fear of choking on smoke."

"Can you fix the lift, Holmes?"

"I believe so, Watson. We will know in a very few minutes."

"And when we get out of here, we will teach Professor Hackberry to never imprison Englishmen with combustible fruitcake again!"


	10. A Study in perspective

Prompt from KnightFury: Christmas shopping from multiple points of view (at least two).

* * *

 **AN** : I am borrowing a character from a friend. I know she would not mind. If you enjoy Sherlock Holmes and Pirates of the Caribbean I recommend reading Nytd's 'A Study in Rum'. You can find her on my favorite authors list. Here's to you, Captain. \\_/

* * *

 **A Study in Perspective**

 _I wonder why he's looking at those. A lady friend? None of my business, I'm sure_. Mr. Jabez Wilson waited calmly behind his counter, tinkering with an old turnip watch while surreptitiously keeping an eye on the gentlemen browsing the displays of his shop. _I thought he didn't much care for women. It is near Christmas, though. Suppose he drew a name from a hat? Maybe. Some folk do that._

 _Why is he looking through those? Who could he possibly be interested in?_ Dr. John Watson tried discretely to observe his friend's selection. He knew if Holmes were paying even half attention he would notice. Watson just could not help himself. _Those are some lovely hair combs, but frightfully out of style. I would never have guessed Mr. Wilson would possess such things. Perhaps women a little down on their luck pawning heirlooms from their mothers. Who could Holmes be thinking of? Surely not Irene Adler. She is long since married. Perhaps that Miss Hastings from the Natural History Museum. Those pins are rather old. It could be for Mrs. Hudson, I suppose. He is always so conscious of small tokens rather than some grand thing she has no room for._

"Watson, do you recall that Pinchin case? The lady thief?" said Holmes, half turning. "Remember how she used her hair pins to pick the locks of Lady Warner's bedroom door? Ingenious woman. Used our stuffy social norms to divert attention and nearly escaped London with a sizable fortune in jewels."

"Ah…" Watson coughed and averted his blushing face before he could risk speaking. "I do recall that case. I have yet to write it up, though."

"There really was not very much to recommend it, Watson. I shouldn't bother if I were you."

 _A case? A case? I should have guessed. Oh well. I had hoped to sell a few of those. Suppose I shall have to melt them down._ Mr. Wilson finished with the watch and was pleased to hear it ticking nicely with a steady rhythm. _That will sell soon, I'm sure._


	11. Falling

Prompt from sirensbane: Falling.

* * *

 **Falling**

"Sir?"

The man behind the desk looked up from his reading and motioned his visitor to enter.

"Just got word through channels."

"What is it?"

"We've lost contact with Reardon in the Indian office. Word there is that he was killed while hunting. Nothing confirmed yet."

"Reardon? Hunting? Not likely. See what you can get out of Singapore."

"That's another problem, sir. Li Wei has been arrested along with seven of his lieutenants. The only man there I have been able to communicate with is Zhang Yong and he says he is returning to China."

"Send a message to Rogers. Tell him to get his people on the docks active. I want Zhang Yong questioned. Report back when you know something."

"Sir, that won't be possible."

"Why not?"

"Rogers is on his way to London. He was transferred to the Home Office."

"What!" The man behind the desk shot to his feet. "I gave no such order!"

"The order came from the Home Office, sir. Apparently from the man who has the ear of the Queen."

The man behind the desk dropped, pale faced, into his chair. He wiped a hand over his high brow and the oscillation of his head began, as if he were scanning tablets of data only he could see.

"That man is not active enough to have penetrated our operations in the Orient," he said after several seconds' consideration. "Learn what else you can. Compile the data. Caution our other assets. And I want to speak to Moran."

"He's at his club, sir."

"I said I want to speak to him."

"Yes sir!"

As the office door closed the man behind the desk reached for the bottle of whiskey on the shelf behind him. He had a sensation in his gut. He could not define it, but he suspected it was the same sort of sensation an oak tree might have when caught in a gale and the first of its roots snaps.


	12. The Case of the Pall Mall Carolers

Prompt from SheWhoScrawls: Caroling

* * *

 **The Case of the Pall Mall Carolers**

I recall on that particular 12 December the weather was quite cold and damp. A wet snow was falling and fog hung in the air. Sherlock Holmes and I had been invited to the Diogenes Club for supper. This was not unusual so near Christmas. Mycroft, though reclusive, was still Holmes's older brother and there was between them the usual feelings of family. It was, however, unusual for Mycroft to request we arrive at the servant's entrance on foot and in disguise.

"What's it all about, Holmes?" I asked while he adjusted a weather-beaten old coat about me. He had given me a pair of disreputable overalls to conceal my good trousers and had strongly suggested I wear a pair of his battered old shoes. I insisted on wearing my own footwear and only convinced him after I dug out the brogans I had worn in Afghanistan. They were well past their prime, but I could not quite bring myself to discard them.

"I do not know, Watson," he said, giving my scarf a final adjustment. "In his note Mycroft stated he did not want to bias my opinion before I had an opportunity to see for myself."

"See what?"

"There again, he did not say."

Holmes pronounced me ready and quickly donned his own costume. He handed me a heavy tool box and a saw, explaining we were to pass ourselves for carpenters hired to make repairs to the interior roof of the club. Our disguises were apparently very good, for when I attempted to wave down a hansom the driver laughed at me as he passed. Without chiding, Holmes directed me towards a city bus, explaining we would not draw as much attention arriving in one of those. The bus deposited us half a block from the club and Holmes and I trudged through the snow the rest of the way.

Once inside a butler escorted us by servants' halls to Mycroft's sitting room. At least, it was the sitting room in which we had always met with him. After our greetings he I noted a distinct twinkle in his eyes and a sly smile creasing his lips. Just as I was about to speak he held a finger to his lips and motioned us to the window. Holmes and I stood looking out. It was a typical late afternoon on Pall Mall, pedestrians, carriages and cabs went their own way on private business. Watching, though, I noted a well-dressed group moving together, song books in their hands. The other pedestrians made way for them, the gentlemen tipping their hats to the ladies and all exchanging cheerful greetings.

"What do you see, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, his voice low and sedate.

"It is most interesting," Holmes said. "The man with the scar."

"The large woman in the middle," said Mycroft.

"The three boys traipsing after," Holmes said. "They are the ones to watch."

"What of the little girl?" asked Mycroft, his tone knowing.

"I do not believe so."

"Not strong enough?"

"Wrong shoes and her stockings are too good."

"Hadn't thought of that. You are correct. She has other duties."

"They stopped over the manhole."

"Every evening since the first."

"How many hours?"

"One and they return three more times."

At this point it was clear something was up, but I found it difficult to follow the rapid fire exchange between the brothers. Instead, I attempted to ignore them and make my own observations. The group of perfectly harmless looking people had arrayed itself with the large woman mentioned by Mycroft positioned in the middle, surrounded by men and women alike. Standing in front was the man with a distinct scar upon his left cheek. The three boys, I noted, stood very close to the large woman as the group began their caroling. The young girl, though, moved among the passersby holding out a large tin cup, singing as she begged for charity.

I felt myself smile at the sight of so many good people depositing coins in the tin cup. It warmed my heart to know that my fellow Londoners were so ready to aid those in need. Ours can be a wonderful city and now and again I need to be reminded of the fact.

"Neatly done," said Holmes.

"They were not so good the first week."

"Practice makes perfect."

"What are you talking about?" I asked, turning to face the brothers.

"You did not notice?" Holmes asked, eyebrows raised.

"Notice what?" I asked, looking back to the carolers.

"The boys, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said, tapping the window with his knuckles. "Where are the boys?"

I blinked in astonishment. Though I had been watching the choir, the boys had disappeared unmarked by me.

"While you were watching the little girl, Watson, the boys ducked under the skirts of the large woman in the middle."

"Good Lord!" I exclaimed, shocked and scandalized.

"For no tawdry reason, I should think," Mycroft said easily.

"Why would they do that?" I asked.

"She is a large woman," Holmes said. "Even so, her skirts are oversized, are they not?"

"I suppose they might be." I had not really paid her much attention. It was only then I understood the pretty little girl with the tin cup was a decoy.

"Which do you think it is, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked. "Or do you think it is both?"

"They are nearer Schwartz and Marx than Dunshaw's."

"The jewelers?" I asked, my thoughts racing. "My Lord! It is like John Clay and poor Mr. Jabez Wilson!"

"Quite so, Doctor," said Holmes. "These people are far bolder, and in their way, smarter."

"What do we do?" I asked. "Call the police?"

"I should say not yet," Mycroft said. "They are digging through earth and rock. While there are a number of ways they could be disposing of the spoil from the tunnel, they cannot be making it very large."

"That is why they are using boys," I said, understanding dawning on me.

"And we do not simply want to catch them in the middle of digging the tunnel," said Holmes. "We need to catch them red-handed."

"Who do you think?" Mycroft asked. "Bradstreet? Lestrade?"

"Not in this case. Jones did very well in the Red Headed League business. And he knows what sorts of things some of these criminals can get up to. It will take less time to convince him."

Satisfied, Mycroft treated us to a very good meal and some quality Virginia cigars he had recently acquired. The following day Holmes brought Jones into the case and they arranged with both jewelry shops to post guards in their safe rooms. Night after night these men kept vigil and others in plain clothes stood and watched on the street. Only when the boys broke into Schwartz and Marx was the whistle blown and the gang rounded up. I could not but feel pity for the little girl as she was hustled away in tears. Still, the crime was foiled and that is the important thing. How callous does a person need to be to commit a crime in the guise of Christmas time revelers?


	13. The Green Hooded Man

Prompt from cjnwriter: A client arrives at 221b, but is not looking for Holmes

* * *

 **The Curious Affair of the Green Hooded Man**

I answered a knock at our door and found Mrs. Hudson looking unusually confused. She seemed unable to make up her mind whether to speak or not.

"Mrs. Hudson, what ever is the matter?" I asked.

"There is a… Well, a man, I suppose. He is asking about a burglar and I thought he must be wanting to speak with Mr. Holmes." She looked down the stairs and dithered.

"A man inquiring about a burglar or a burglary?" Holmes asked, coming into our sitting room from his bedroom. He wore his old mouse grey dressing gown and was raking his fingers through his hair in an effort to set things to rights.

"I believe he is speaking of a burglar, sir," she said. "He has a frightful accent. Sounds very foreign. Maybe from Prussia."

"Did he ring the bell?" asked Holmes, checking the mantel clock. "It is nearly ten."

"No," she said, looking even more flustered. "I was just going to sweep the snow off the front steps again before going to bed and there he was."

"Send him away, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes said. "A burglary is far too common to interest me at the moment."

"Holmes, it has been three weeks since you closed your last case." I gave him what I hoped was an insistent look.

"Very well!" He blew out a great sigh of resentment. "I suppose it will distract for a moment or two. Send the man up."

I waited with our flat door wide open as Mrs. Hudson went down to our visitor. Over the years living with Sherlock Holmes I have come to expect the unexpected. Never would I have imagined meeting anyone like the man that mounted the seventeen steps leading up to our flat. I jumped to the conclusion he must be a circus performer the instant I spied him. He was broad as a barrel and only slightly taller than one. His beard was long and luxurious, platted and died a wonderful shade of blue and he wore it tucked behind what looked like a belt made of golden rosettes. Upon his head he wore no hat, rather it was a dark green, pointed hood and over his shoulder he carried what I soon learned was an exquisitely made viol. He stumped across the landing and stopped directly in front of me, looking up in an appraising manner.

"Um…" I said, unable to string together a sentence for a moment. "Uh… My name is Dr. John Watson, won't you come in?"

"Dwalin at your service," he said in a melodious baritone. He bowed and crossed our threshold to confront Holmes who stood with a lit match half way to his pipe. Again the short man bowed and said, "Dwalin, son of Fundin, at your service."

"Sherlock Holmes at yours," said my friend and tossed the match into the grate before bowing. "Won't you have a seat? May I offer you tea?"

"Tea? Beer would suit me better," our guest said, moving to seat himself upon the chaise beside the fire.

"Watson, see what you can do, will you?" said Holmes, looking utterly mesmerized by Mr. Dwalin's appearance.

I slipped down to have a quick word with Mrs. Hudson. She seemed no better or worse than she had a moment ago, but the good woman promised to bring the best beer she had in the cellar. I suggested a plate of sliced bread, cheese and ham, just in case.

Back in our rooms I found Holmes leaning forward, elbows on knees, and puffing away at his pipe. Mr. Dwalin had apparently just finished speaking and Holmes's expression spoke volumes about his confusion and interest.

"You won't mind if I light my own pipe, will you?" Mr. Dwalin asked, reaching under his cloak to produce a wonderfully ornate pipe with a huge briar bowl and a stem made of black horn.

"By all means," Holmes said and offered the short man his slipper full of shag. "Would you mind going over your tale one more time so that my associate can hear?"

Mr. Dwalin nodded, stuffed his pipe full, lit it and blew out a great cloud of blue grey smoke. Again he nodded, this time in appreciation of the tobacco and then looked at me.

"Dr. Watson, I was just telling Mr. Holmes how I and my associates have been looking for someone to join us in an adventure," he said, continuing to puff on his pipe. "To tell the truth, I was a little turned around when your kindly housekeeper opened the door and I saw the rune upon it. B for burglar, eh?"

"B for burglar? I do not understand," said I.

"It's the usual rune used in situations like this," Mr. Dwalin said. "At least, it used to be. Burglar wants a good job, plenty of excitement and reasonable reward. I can assure you all of those would be supplied in goodly measure. Only, you see, we were looking for only one fellow to join us. Nothing against doctors, you understand. It's just a burglar is what we need."

Mrs. Hudson knocked and bustled in with a large tray laden with a pitcher of beer and plates of bread, ham and cheese. I caught Holmes's eye while our visitor was distracted by Mrs. Hudson. I raised an inquiring brow. Holmes, in reply, smiled bemusedly and shook his head.

"Mr. Dwalin," said Holmes once Mrs. Hudson departed, "there has been some misunderstanding. The B upon our door is not a rune. It is a letter. And it has nothing to do with burglars."

"Eh? Does it not?" Mr. Dwalin looked as perplexed as we had a moment ago. "This is very good beer, by the way. And your ham is excellent. Cheese could be a bit sharper. It'll do, though."

"I am pleased you like it," said Holmes. "Getting back to my point, in this case B simply designates this flat as a separate postal residence. It is our address, you see?"

"Address?" Dwalin snorted and looked back and forth between Holmes and myself as if he were trying to determine if we were in earnest. "You mean I've come to the wrong place?"

"Not to put too fine of a point on it, but yes, you have." Holmes, to my secret delight, placed a cut of ham and a bit of cheese on a slice of bread and ate for the first time in two days. He sat back in his chair and scrutinized our guest while he chewed.

"It's funny," Mr. Dwalin said, finishing a mouthful. "I thought I was off track when the snow started coming down. Seemed the wrong time of year."

"It is December," I said and went to pour myself a whiskey.

"Is it really?" Dwalin asked, his expression incredulous. "That would explain the weather. How did I lose so many months?"

"Mr. Dwalin, you are far from home and off your track," said Holmes. "It is well after dark and our city is strange to you. While I am certain I am not the burglar you were looking for, I invite you to spend the night here. Make a fresh start in the morning. We will feed you breakfast and send you on your way with some provisions."

"I would not want to impose," Dwalin said, deferentially.

"I think it would be a good idea, also," I said. Glad to have Holmes's curiosity roused so thoroughly. "Please do stay, Mr. Dwalin. You are, I perceive, a music lover. As it happens, so is Holmes."

"Indeed I am!" Holmes confirmed, rising and fetching his violin. "Once you have refreshed yourself, what would you say to playing a while?"

"If it would not disturb your landlady, I would be delighted!" Dwalin agreed with enthusiasm.

That night remains fixed in my mind. Never has anyone been treated to such a private concert. Many were the tunes Mr. Dwalin knew that neither Holmes nor I had ever heard. Dwalin was equally unfamiliar with and equally delighted by the music Holmes played. It was late in the night before any of us grew weary. The next morning we set our guest on his way with several good ham sandwiches and many good wishes, bidding him to visit again whenever he was in London.


	14. Dance Lesson

Prompt from Hades Lord of the Dead: Watson cannot dance.

* * *

 **Dance Lesson**

"Wynona!"

"Mrs. Hudson, really!"

Wynona rose from buffing the floor and dashed into the front sitting room to find her employer, Mrs. Hudson, waiting with one of the gramophone records in her hands. Dr. Watson stood beside the Christmas tree with a painfully embarrassed expression.

"Yes ma'am?" Wynona asked, looking back and forth between the two of them.

"Just a moment, dear," said Mrs. Hudson. "She is about the same height, is she not, Doctor?'

"Yes, but…"

"But nothing!" Mrs. Hudson scolded. "I am not saying I am too old. I am saying my toes are sore."

"I have apologized already," Dr. Watson said, blushing furiously. "And I am quite grateful to you. Truly, I am."

"Good!" the landlady said curtly. "Wynona, you know how to dance a waltz, don't you?"

"Yes ma'am," said Wynona. Her smile was tentative and she looked shyly at the handsome doctor. "I know several dances, ma'am."

"Perfect! You see Dr. Watson, this will work out wonderfully."

"But Mrs. Hudson…"

"You came to me for help. Mr. Holmes will be out of the house until sometime tonight." She placed the record on the gramophone and turned the crank. "Wynona, you don't mind helping the doctor to learn to dance, do you?"

"No I don't, ma'am!" said the girl a little too eagerly.

"Good, because Dr. Watson has asked Miss Morstan to a New Year's Eve ball and we have only weeks to make him proficient enough to not send the poor girl to hospital. That reminds me. Billy!"

The pageboy trotted up from the cellar where he had been shoveling coal into scuttles. His nose was blackened and there was a smudge on his sleeve, but he was otherwise unmarred.

"Fetch out your boots, Billy," Mrs. Hudson ordered.

"My boots, ma'am?" he asked.

"The ones you wear when gardening. Those boots."

Billy dashed off and returned a minute later with the required footwear. Heavy and stout with hardened toes and thick soles, they were of the kind called ammunition boots. Mrs. Hudson took them from the boy and handed them to Wynona.

"Put these on, dear. You will thank me in the morning."


	15. Trapped

From Domina Temporis: In which Holmes really does not like bagpipes

* * *

 **AN** : Give a silly prompt, get a silly response.

* * *

"Watson, hold them off while I reload!"

"Hurry, Holmes!"

Skirling shrieks and honks of frustration resounded down the narrow corridor even as Dr. Watson raised his revolver. WHAM! And his bullet punched through a dozen sagging bodies. Still their compatriots surged forward. WHAM! And a dozen more were pierced. Again and yet again Watson fired and the deadly creatures did not falter. Many that were pierced shook off their wounds, some leaving grotesque limbs behind to struggle forward lamely, but struggle forward they did.

"Holmes!"

"I'm ready, Watson!"

The doctor fired his last round and ducked back behind the bent and twisted door.

"We have to do something, Holmes!"

The detective fired two rounds in rapid succession. Over the squawking, squeaking skirling of their enraged antagonists, Holmes asked, "What do you suggest?"

"Barricade the opening!" shouted Watson. "It will give us time to think!"

"I'm nearly empty!" Holmes fired his last shot and ducked back so Watson could take his place.

The room was near barren of materials for a barricade, but there were old sacks of potatoes, now mostly weird with roots. Holmes tossed one of these in the general direction of the door and reloaded, finishing in time to take his turn shooting. Watson grabbed a pair of sacks and stacked them. Holmes ran out of bullets and the two men had to beat back their terrible foes with pistol butts and raw savagery until the leaders lost heart and withdrew to reorganize.

"How are we going to get out of this, Holmes?"

"Let us survive the moment, Watson," said Holmes as he dragged three or four sacks to the opening.

Watson found a sizable crate of novelty souvenirs and shoved it into place behind the sacks of potatoes and Holmes added more sacks. Out in the corridor the skirling sounded again.

"They are coming," said Holmes.

Watson looked around in the dimness, his shoulders sagged. "We cannot get out."

"Do you see now, Watson, why I really do not like bagpipes?" asked Holmes.


	16. Tree

Prompt from BookRookie12: The Holmes brothers do something together.

* * *

 **1865 Banbury, Great Britain**

"Why do I have to go?"

"You must drive the sleigh, Mycroft," Sherrinford said, drawing the saddle cinch tight on his horse.

"Sherlock could do that," whined Mycroft. He gave a wide berth to Bess as he moved to attach the harness slings to the sleigh.

"I don't want to," said Sherlock. "I want to ride. I want to use the axe and cut down the tree!"

"We are not using the axe to cut it down," Sherrinford said patiently, looking up at his youngest brother perched atop Newton, the young sorrel gelding their father had purchased the previous summer. "We will cut it down with the saw. The axe is in case we need to clear a path. Why are you not helping Mycroft?"

"I don't need him," said Mycroft. "I'll manage."

"If you can manage, why is it taking so long?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"I have told you, Sherlock, horses are dangerous at both ends and crafty in the middle." Keeping a warry eye on Bess's hind hooves Mycroft fastened the slings and went to clip the reigns to the headstall. "I don't see why we could not simply tell Gregory or Simon to fetch us a tree. It's in their line, you know."

"Mother asked us to fetch one," Sherrinford said. Satisfied his saddle was properly fitted he went to inspect Sherlock's tack. "Well done, little brother. You've got this sort of thing well in hand."

"He should," said Mycroft. "Spends half his time down here with the grooms learning all the little things. Comes back covered in dirt and worse. Drives mother to distraction."

"Father says we must learn all we can of the things that are of use," Sherlock retorted. "Might come a time when I'm all alone in the middle of nowhere and have to do for myself."

"That's quite right, Sherlock," Sherrinford said, patting him on the leg. "You should probably try to stay cleaner, though."

"All right," Sherlock agreed, smiling happily.

"Almost done, Mycroft?" Sherrinford asked, sending a wink up at his little brother.

"Done and done," Mycroft said. "This is pointless. I still say we should send the grooms or maybe one of the butlers."

Sherrinford ignored the sedentary brother and mounted his long legged hunter.

"How big of a tree do we get?" Sherlock asked, thumping Newton with his heels.

"Mother wants a tall one," said Sherrinford. "Let us say seven or eight feet."

"Seven or eight?" Mycroft groaned from his seat in the sleigh.

"Not tall enough?" asked Sherrinford? "You want a ten footer? All right, but you're climbing the ladder to put the angel on top."

"No I am not!"

Sherlock and Sherrinford laughed as they spurred their horses out into the winter landscape.

"I am not putting the angel on!" shouted Mycroft, stirring Bess into a sedate trot after them. "I don't like heights!"


	17. SYWC a Letter

Prompt from Domina Temporis: Vampires

* * *

Mr. Mycroft Holmes

Diogenese Club

No. 15 Pall Mall, London

Dear Brother,

In response to your inquiry of 8 December, I looked into certain events occurring in the vicinity of Greyfriars Kirk. While I was not directly involved in the termination of those events, I can vouchsafe there will be no further such events in the near future. Competent persons were involved and the general public will not learn what transpired. Suffice to say, the _ladies_ were at it again.

Addressing your concerns for events occurring closer to home; Here again I investigated and was on the track of the perpetrator with the aid of my particular friend. I obtained several samples and have them safely stored in light proof vials. I fear, though, further samples from this individual will be impossible to obtain. The _ladies_ rather inconveniently decided sunlight was the best disinfectant. For reasons of secrecy, I dare not let them know I have the samples. There is no telling what they might do. They are women, after all.

Your message of 10 December concerned me enough to involve my particular friend in an investigation I had little interest in. He spent several hours on a train observing a perfectly innocent man while I made an effort to run to ground the suspect you indicated. Much to my chagrin the _ladies_ once more beat me to the prize. Had I not been hobbled by the necessity of contriving a mission for Watson I might have had a live one for examination.

In conclusion, brother, I feel strongly that if we are ever to obtain a subject we must somehow divert the attentions of the S.Y.W.C. They are rather too efficient. Why must we refrain from contacting them? I begin to think it wiser to join forces in fighting the scourge than to continue to compete with the S.Y.W.C.

Yours sincerely,

Sherlock

* * *

 **AN** : This is a sort of sequel to an entry in my 2014 Calendar Challenge. Chapter 14 – 'Mary Watson's Adventures in the Scotland Yard Wives Club' which was a response to a prompt from Madam'zelleGiry.


	18. Pipe

Prompt from W. Y. Traveller: Pipe

* * *

 **AN** : I had to go away for a while. It was too difficult to work night shift and try to be creative. I am, however, back and intend to complete the challenge.

* * *

"Holmes, can you not explain why we are hiding down here?"

"Watson!" hissed Holmes. "I cannot stress too emphatically the need for silence in this instance!"

In retrospect, I do not blame him. It was a near run thing. My only excuse is at the time I was uncomfortable and stiff from hours of inactivity and lying upon a damp stone floor. We were in the deepest cellar of the Hiddelston mansion with nothing to occupy my mind save the dripping of a leaking pipe and thoughts of a good breakfast not yet had. I closed my mouth and rubbed a finger in the corner of my eye where it itched. Holmes, as far as I could see, made no move whatever.

We were positioned on the floor behind a large rack of wine bottles that had lain undisturbed for perhaps a generation, so thick was the layer of dust coating them. It made me particularly glad Holmes had warned me to wear my oldest suit of clothes. I was about to rub at the itch in the corner of my eye again when the softest scuff on the stone floor came to my ears. Through the near total darkness approached a dark lantern, giving off hardly enough light to see by through a deep red lens. I tensed, ready for action. The lantern bearer passed within two paces of our concealment and turned for the corner from which emanated the sound of dripping water. Soon the sound of steal on lead overlay the dripping and then a rush of water. I rose up and squatted on the balls of my feet with one hand resting upon the wine rack for balance. Holmes, I noted, remained prone in spite of the water. It was only after several minutes that the flow was closed off. Soft grunts and the scraping of steel on lead followed and then came the sodden sound of footsteps in water.

"Now, Watson!" cried Holmes and we sprang upon the culprit.

A loud shriek of fright split the dimness. Holmes made his grab and tore the concealing cloak from the figure and to my shock I realized too late it was a young woman I launched myself at. I fear I struck her a rather devastating blow learnt on the rugby fields of my youth. She and I tumbled to the stone floor and in the instant she was subdued and weeping.

"Well done, Watson," said Holmes, taking the young woman by the arms and lifting her to her feet. "Not hurt, I think. Only shaken."

"It's a girl!" said I, still surprised.

"Curse you men!" she screamed. "Damn all of your kind! I'm lost! Lost!"

I took up her dropped lantern and raised the cover from the lens. The light revealed the slim form of Cynthia, youngest daughter of Thomas Hiddleston, our client.

"Miss Hiddelston, you do yourself no good," said Holmes. "We did not drive you to thievery."

"I was going to be free!" the young woman screamed into his face and tried to shake loose of his grasp. Failing, she began bawling piteously, shaking in wretched, child-like grief.

"She is the theif?" I asked, finally beginning to comprehend the reality.

"Just so, Watson," said Holmes. "A true pity. She is really quite intelligent. I did not at first suspect her. A thorough planner and filled with patience."

"Mr. Holmes? Dr. Watson?" called a man's voice.

"This way, Constable Jones," Holmes replied. "We have a prisoner for you."

"Curse all men!" Miss Hiddelston swore again as Jones took her away.

"I am confused, Holmes," I declared as soon as she was gone. "What just happened? Did she truly steal her mother's diamonds? And how did she hide them down here?"

"She stole them, Watson," said Holmes. He took the lantern from me and shone it on the folded cloak in his other hand. There I saw a heavy canvas sack and a strange tool, like a cross between a spanner and a set of tongs. "Take the sack, Watson. I am sure Mr. Hiddleston and his wife will be glad to have the jewels back."

"Cynthia hid them in a water pipe?" I asked.

"As I said, she is intelligent," he said. "Let us take a closer look at her hiding place. I suspect I already know what we will find."

I held the lantern while Holmes found and then loosened the pipe Miss Hiddleston had secreted her ill-gotten treasure in. Once more water flowed out onto the stone floor. Holmes inserted two fingers of his right hand and felt about for a moment before jerking something from the lead pipe. With a triumphant grin, he held it up for me to see.

"Brass wire?" I asked.

"Easier to work with than iron, Watson." He tucked the object into his pocket and used the odd tool to close the pipe. "Brass is also impervious to the influences of water."

"You knew it was there?"

"I knew." He gave the pipe a last turn and the flow of water ended. "You will recall I asked the scullery maid when the drain in the laundry room began to overflow."

"Yes. She said it occurred the first time two weeks ago," I said.

"And she said it corrected itself a day or so later," he said. "And then the morning after the theft it overflowed again and continued to overflow, so she had to do her washing outside."

"Good Lord. Cynthia Hiddleston tested that wire contraption two weeks ago. She has been planning this out for some time."

"Intelligent and patient." Holmes gave an appreciative nod and gestured for me to follow him to the stairs leading up to the kitchen. "I feel sorry for the girl and her parents. She has shattered any trust they might have placed in her."

"She was lamenting the loss of her freedom," I said.

"And cursing men," said he, placing his foot upon the first riser. "There is more to this than you and I can bring closure to, Watson. Let us be done with this case."

It took Holmes an hour to sufficiently explain the theft to the Hiddlestons. Cynthia refused to speak to anyone. She sat scowling at the floor with her hands balled into fists in her lap. Her father said nothing to her and her mother could only ask "Why?" over and over again. In the end, Cynthia was remanded to her parents' custody and no official charges were ever made.


	19. Aegean Artifacts

Prompt from Book girl fan: "It's all Greek to me!"

* * *

 **The Case of the Aegean Artifacts**

I returned to Baker Street one evening in mid-December after spending time at my club. Before ascending the steps I took the precaution of thoroughly dusting myself off. I wiped the chalk from the back of my left hand where I habitually rested my cue stick while playing billiards. From a small box hidden beside the coatrack I took an old rag and wiped away any traces of soil that might have accumulated upon my boots. I even paused before the hall mirror to check my face. The mischief was in me and for once I wished to make it impossible for Holmes to accurately determine where I had spent my afternoon. At the least, I hoped to make it more difficult. As things turned out my efforts went to waste.

"Good evening, Holmes," I called out, entering our rooms. I waited for his customary response, but none came. Hanging up my coat and bowler I ventured further into the sitting room. Upon Holmes's desk was a cardboard box containing a collection of oddments of some antiquity. A few items were sitting out. One of Holmes's powerful magnifying lenses beside these suggested he had spent a little time examining them. Being myself curious, I took up the lens and played it over the items.

"What do you think, Watson?"

Startled, I jerked upright. Instantly I convulsed in a shock of pain from my shoulder.

"Watson!" Holmes strode quickly across the room to my side, putting out a hand to steady me. "What is it?"

"Nothing," I gasped and rolled my arm back and forth to flex the muscles. "My old wound, Holmes. Cold days and sudden movements sometimes play the devil with it."

"I am sorry, old friend," he said in a most conciliatory tone, setting aside a book he was carrying. "I should not have startled you. Have a seat by the fire and I will get you some brandy."

I gladly complied and soon found my shoulder feeling normal again. Holmes, seeing I was no longer discomfited went to his desk, opened the book and began browsing through the contents of the box.

"Not to repeat myself, Watson, but I am curious what you think of these," he said, holding up one shapely little pewter goblet.

"Artifacts?" I asked.

"Yes," he said and brought the box and book over to the fire, setting the box upon our hearth rug in front of me. "An old acquaintance of mine from my school days came by, seeking advice. His name is Price Waterson and he has an associate from Canada who recently spent time in the Aegean on some kind of archeological expedition. This associate asked Waterson for a loan to finance a further expedition. These artifacts are offered as collateral. Price Waterson is uncertain how much money such collateral should merit."

As he spoke Holmes had been picking up one piece and another, showing them to me and referring to image plates in his book. When he mentioned money I took a sharper look. Reaching out I plucked the shapely little goblet from the box and held it to the light. It was heavier than I had expected and a shade darker than the pewter I was familiar with. In fact, holding it, I felt certain it was not pewter at all, but lead.

"These are from the Aegean?" I asked.

"So claims the Canadian," said he. "I have my doubts, but I only began my examination a moment before you walked in."

"Well, take a closer look at this one," I said, holding out the goblet.

Holmes took it and used his lens. A slow smile blossomed and he looked at me with twinkling eyes, saying, "By Jove. Well done, Watson."

"Jupiter, actually," I said, smiling at his joke. "Seems doubtful the Greeks would have such a cup among their possessions."

"I agree," he said. "Were it gold or silver, I might pass it off as war booty."

"No soldier would bother with a lead cup, though," I said.

"Especially one depicting a Roman god." Holmes set it aside and quickly rifled through the rest of the artifacts. Several he set beside the goblet. One he held up to me, smirking ironically. "Imitation Japanese."

I gawked and we both began to laugh. Holmes restored the cluster of worthless junk to the box and sent a telegram to Mr. Price Waterson, telling him to save his money. So ended The Case of the Aegean Artifacts.

* * *

 **AN** : If you are wondering, yes, the Romans did make drinking vessels from lead. Ironically, lead, a toxic metal, is associated with the Roman god of agriculture, Saturn.


	20. Highgate

Prompt at the end of the story.

* * *

 **The Highgate** **Adventure**

 _Highgate Cemetery._

 _Come with all speed._

 _Lestrade_

"What can it mean?" I asked, folding the message torn from a notebook. It had been sent via cabbie and the cab waited for us on the street.

"I do not know, Watson, but our friend has never been so brief and urgent simultaneously."

I followed Holmes out the front door into the snowy afternoon, still buttoning my ulster. A task made less easy by the medical bag in my hand. The snow had gradually increased as the day had progressed and now was coming down in large, damp flakes to blanket London in soft white.

"There is an extra sovereign in it for you if you get us there in fifteen minutes!" Holmes called up to the driver before climbing in. This had the desired effect. The driver cracked his whip and at the top of his lungs exhorted all to make way. Fortunately, he proved less greedy than wise as several times he slowed his blowing mare when the cobbles became slick with frost.

"Stop here, driver!" shouted Holmes a bit more than fifteen minutes later.

We were coming to the intersection of Swains Lane and Oakshott Avenue where sat a police wagon with two men beside it. Though the driver had failed in his efforts to get us there in fifteen minutes, Holmes still paid him the sovereign as we stepped down.

"Well, well, Watson, look who it is," said Holmes, indicating the uniformed man beside the wagon.

"Is that Sergeant Harper?" I asked. "I haven't seen him since the night we captured the mad violinist."

"The Heffernan Theatre business, yes," said Holmes, taking my elbow and encouraging me on. "It looks as though he could use your attention, Doctor."

I saw immediately what Holmes meant. Sergeant Harper, massive and stolid as ever, sported a bloodied bandage on his right hand. He stood with his head high, eyes alert and chest out, but the white bandage was nearly soaked through with red. In sharp contrast was our old friend Inspector Lestrade, bundled against the cold and hunched against the wind. Lestrade's eyes were worried. The police wagon held a lone occupant who jabbered and rambled under his breath. Tied to the wagon was a fierce little fox terrier, straining at the end of his leash and snarling up at the mumbling man.

"How now, Lestrade?" asked Holmes, extending his hand in greeting.

"Thank God you are here, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said, accepting my friend's hand and then reaching for mine. "It seemed a minor thing at first, but the more we learned the more urgent matters have become. I was not here for the beginning, though. Sergeant Harper should tell you that part."

"It has been a long time, Sergeant," said Holmes.

"It has, sir, but there is no time for pleasantries."

Harper allowed me to take the bandage from his hand and at once I knew the cause of his injury. Four distinct punctures, two on the back and two on the palm, pulsed blood, though the flow had nearly stopped. I showed the wounds to Holmes.

"Why did he bite you, man?" asked Holmes.

"It was on account of me pulling him off that mad b…" Harper clamped his mouth shut and swallowed the word. "He was savaging the prisoner, sir. I've never seen a dog that small so intent on trying to bring down a grown man. And the prisoner was unable to gather sufficient wit to run the beast off. He danced and screamed and waved his hands in fright, sir. When I finally got the two separated, I asked the prisoner what was going on. He could make no proper answer, sir."

"What answer did he give?" asked Holmes, eyeing the man in the police wagon.

"He only said, little dogs are not allowed in school houses."

"Where did you encounter these peculiar combatants, Sergeant?" Holmes asked.

"Just there, Mr. Holmes," Harper said, pointing to a lamp post some fifty or sixty feet away, roughly half way between us and the stone edifice of the cemetery. All about the post the snow and frost was churned and here and there were tints of red. The little dog certainly had something against the mumbling idiot in the wagon. "That's about all I can say. It's very peculiar. I only called for an inspector after I read the dog's tag."

"The dog's tag?" Holmes asked, looking sharply at the sergeant.

"Barney is stamped on one side," Lestrade said, taking over the narrative. "Clearly that must be the dog's name. On the reverse is R. D. Howe and an address."

"Howe?" I demanded, surprised.

"Would the address be _?" And Holmes rattled off the location.

"The very one, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade looked more than usually grim. "I have already sent word and there are constables combing the neighborhood. So far, the search has turned up nothing and Lord Howe has not yet responded."

"It is unlikely he will," said Holmes gravely. "Lord Howe is supposed to be out of the country."

"If he is out of the country, how did his dog end up here, attacking a vagrant?" I asked.

"Lord Howe has a son, Richard, and two daughters, Elizabeth and Angela," said Lestrade. "I doubt the son would be out walking their terrier. I believe one of the daughters must have taken Barney for a stroll and was accosted by this man."

My friend went to the door of the wagon, avoiding the snarling little Barney, and opened it. Immediately the dog lunged for the ragged man within. Holmes whistled shrill and sharp and Barney's ears lay flat back against his head, his expression was startled and he went silent.

"Enough of that! Behave yourself," said Holmes, pointing authoritatively at the dog. "I think you had better have a look at this man, Watson."

I finished with Sergeant Harper's hand and went to have a look. The man in the police wagon twitched and shook. He alternated between mumbling and chuckling. His whole countenance spoke of the ravages of the abuse of alcohol.

I pronounced my diagnosis, "Delirium tremens. No wonder he hasn't been making any sense."

"Is there anything you can do for him, Doctor?" asked Lestrade. "Perhaps give him something to bring him round enough to answer questions?"

"Barney has given him several severe bites." I rolled up the poor man's trouser leg and found at least a dozen deep punctures and a few tears in need of stitches. "The bleeding has been sufficient to calm him, but we need to get this man to hospital. He should be bathed, generally attended to and committed for his own safety, if not for the public's."

"Is there anything you can do to make him more coherent?" asked Holmes.

"I dare not give him a stimulant," I said.

"We must have answers, Doctor!" urged Lestrade. "There is very likely a young lady out there in danger."

"His condition is unbalanced and could be fragile," I said. "I have seen some patients collapse and die when in this state. Then what answers would you get?"

Holmes moved up beside me and took the vagrant's unshaved chin in his grasp, forcing the man to meet his eyes. I was about to caution Holmes when the man actually focused and came out of his apparent rambling delirium.

"What have you done?" Holmes asked intently.

"Nothing," said the vagrant, clearly confused.

"Why did the dog bite you?" asked Holmes.

"Wouldn't let him in the schoolhouse."

"What schoolhouse?"

"The white one. The one with the belfry atop."

"Why did the dog want to go into the schoolhouse?"

The vagrant began to laugh and rock back and forth. Holmes snatched him by the collar and shook him, not in a threatening manner, but more in line with getting the man's attention.

"Why did the dog want to go into the schoolhouse?" he demanded loudly.

"Little girls must go to school!" The man's voice was high and rang with harsh, cracking laughter. "Little girls got to go to school!"

With an expression of disgust Holmes released the man and turned away. I bandaged what wounds I could and got the bleeding mostly stopped.

"Lestrade, there are no schools nearby," said Holmes thoughtfully.

"None that I know of," agreed the Yarder. "No active ones for sure, and as far as I can recall, none painted white or with belfries."

"You recall correctly," said Holmes. "So what can he mean? What schoolhouse?"

Holmes squatted beside Barney and began giving the little dog a thorough inspection. Lifting his paws, Holmes removed clods of soil from between his toes and under his curving nails. He ran his fingers through Barney's curly fur and under the knitted blue jacket wrapped about the dog's chest. For the dog's part, he gave every indication that he enjoyed the inspection.

"Find anything, Mr. Holmes?" Lestrade asked, his voice tense.

"Yes." Holmes rose and displayed his palm to the inspector and then to me.

"Rather dark soil," said Lestrade.

"Yes," I agreed. "Not sandy. No sign of clay."

"And very little grit such as you would expect from a dog walking on cobbled streets."

Holmes then turned his attentions to the leash. He examined the slim leather strap with his magnifying glass quite closely. Removing one glove he rubbed a place on the leash, his finger coming away smudged brown.

"Look at this, Watson!"

I peered closely at the tip of his finger. At first I had no notion what he was expecting me to see. Then I discerned a strange bud with a fine tail.

"What is it?" I asked, stepping back to allow Lestrade a look.

"Unless I am deceived, Watson, it is a stamen," Holmes said and stepped to the edge of the walk where snow remained undisturbed. He dipped his fingertip into the snow and brought it out. After a moment he gently rubbed his thumb over the soiled stamen and once again used his glass.

"Doctor?" Harper said from close by my ear. I looked up inquiringly. "What exactly is a stamen, sir?"

"Part of a flower, Sergeant," I explained.

"A flower? At this time of year?"

"Exactly, Sergeant!" said Holmes, his manner excited. "You said you took Barney and his victim in charge over there by that lamp post."

"I did, sir," said the sergeant.

"A fortunate thing it is for us Barney has been so tenacious as to pursue this man so far." Holmes bent over the stamen with his lens, giving it as thorough an inspection as ever I had seen.

"What do you mean by far?" Lestrade asked, though he did not sound argumentative. "How far?"

"Though the snow has continued all morning, you can see where they crossed the street and continued on for some fifty or sixty feet," said Holmes without looking up. "And I would say we need to locate a fairly recent interment."

"Interment?" I asked, surprised.

"Interment," he confirmed. "The soil on the dog's paws is rich and dark. That suggests to me a soil intended to cultivate plants. We are not in farmland. Where in this vicinity are we likely to find soil rich and dark?"

"The cemetery," Harper said, his shoulders squaring and his nostrils flaring like a stallion in the lists.

"Precisely," my friend said. "Further evidence is this stamen. I cannot be certain, but it may come from alstroemeria, the Peruvian lily. Expensive and grown in hothouses this time of year. As you know, gentlemen, such a flower symbolizes memories commonly linked with friendship. A poignant decoration."

"The ground is frozen." Lestrade stamped his foot as if to demonstrate. "That means the soil had to come from a recently dug grave."

"Excellent, Inspector," Holmes said in a particularly approving tone.

"But a schoolhouse?" Harper asked.

"The man is unbalanced, Sergeant. He may not know what he is saying," I said. Turning to Holmes, I said, "The weather is getting worse and a fog is settling. Can we find her?"

"We shall see, Watson." Holmes went to the police wagon and loosed Barney from the axle. Slipping his hand through the loop at the end of the leash, he said, "Show us the way, Barney!"

The little dog did not hesitate a jot. He was off up the lane, straining at the leash. Even in so dire a situation with the welfare of a young lady at stake, I felt the weight of the cemetery's edifice as we neared the gates. Massive, built of stone, it reminded me of nothing so much as an ancient castle meant to guard some pass or highway. Everyone knows walls and fences are constructed as barriers. In the case of cemeteries they are obviously meant to keep people out. Perhaps I am overly superstitious, but though I am a man of science, in my heart I know they are also meant to keep things in. The dog suffered no such dilemma. Apparently understanding we now shared his mission, Barney fairly choked himself dragging Holmes through the gate and down the winding, snow covered pathway. To our dismay, the little dog soon became confused and slowed his pace to sniff and whine.

"What has happened?" I asked, looking about at the many winter bound stones. Trees loomed like dark specters in the gathering gloom. Tendrils of fog crept along the ground as if probing every nook and cranny.

"Barney and the vagrant must have crossed their own path," said Holmes, gesturing at the disturbed snow.

"Looks as if they crossed it more than once," Sergeant Harper said. "There, between the stones and there, beside that crypt."

"And new snow is covering all of them," Lestrade added. "Which is the right way? How can we tell?"

"Miss Howe!" boomed Sergeant Harper, his voice echoing through the frozen stillness. Barney turned in a tight circle and whined again. No cry came in return.

"Gentlemen," Holmes said. "I suggest we separate and fan out from here. Evening is coming and the young lady has been out in this weather for who knows how long."

"Should I call in the searchers from the neighborhood?" asked Lestrade.

"If we find no sign of Miss Howe in the next few minutes, yes," said Holmes.

We each chose a route that had been trampled by the dog and the idiot and struck out among the stones, sarcophagi and mausoleums. My path twisted and turned among upright stones for several yards before I was confronted with a marble angel holding a slim trumpet and pointing to Heaven. I looked about and discovered the path of churned snow led past an unkempt hedge.

"Miss Howe!" cried Sergeant Harper from some little distance. It was difficult to judge in the fog.

I pressed on, looking for any sign of tilled earth or a new stone. I dared not hope to find the hothouse flowers Holmes believed the stamen had come from. It was in this dimness where I could see no more than a dozen feet in any direction that I heard a muffled voice. The sound sank a spike of cold dread through me. As I said, I am a man of science, but I defy even the most ardent atheist to stand there in that fog shrouded realm of the dead and not feel a shiver go down his spine.

"Miss Howe!" called the sergeant once again, only from farther away.

Instantly upon his call I heard a repeat of the muffled voice. Forgetting my superstitious fears, I cried, "Miss Howe?"

Once more I heard a voice and this time I thought I knew from whence it came. I surged through the shin deep snow, up a gentle incline and between a pair leafless saplings. From the fog emerged the vague outline of a small mausoleum. At nearly the same moment Holmes and Barney emerged from the fog on the opposite side of the structure and shot me an encouraging smile.

"Miss Howe?" I cried with more hope than before.

Very faintly, too muffled to be distinct, came the reply, "We're here!"

"Quickly, Watson! Fire a shot!" Holmes bounded with the excited terrier for the heavy bronze doors of the tomb.

With my trusty service revolver I fired a shot into the air and joined Holmes at the door. Barney barked and scrabbled at the unyielding bronze while Holmes struggled to remove a stout length of wood, gnarled and bent, thrust through the matched handles of the doors. He pulled it free amidst cries of joy and fear. Just as the doors opened the good Lestrade and stolid Harper jogged up through the drifted snow and lowering fog.

"Barney!" cried Angela, a young lady of some fifteen or so years.

"Praise God!" cried Elizabeth, older than her sister by two or three years.

The little dog scrambled and scampered in his excitement and bounded into Angela's arms to lick her face and rub his head under her chin. She did not care one whit about the mess he made of her fine coat and her skirts.

"Are you ladies well?" asked Holmes, taking off his inverness and spreading it over the elder sister's shoulders. Harper in his turned removed his policeman's cape and wrapped the younger.

"We are now," said the elder Miss Howe. "That beastly man! I think he must have been mad! Did you catch him?"

"He was awful!" Angela added.

"We have him in custody, ladies," Lestrade said. "Can you tell us what happened?"

"We were bringing flowers for our old nanny," said Angela, still petting and hugging her dog. "She died this time last year, you see."

"And while we were walking that man came from among the shrubberies," Elizabeth said. "He was ranting and waving that stick."

"Barney went for him and we ran," said Angela.

"He was too swift, though," Elizabeth said. "Completely ignored Barney. Raved about little girls needing to be in school and drove us in fear of our lives to this place."

"It was terrible!" gasped Angela. "I've never been so frightened!"

"It was just like one of those poems by Edgar Alan Poe," Elizabeth said with a shudder.

"You are both safe now," I said, stepping in before either girl became hysterical. "Best if we get you out of here and home where it is safe and warm"

"Yes," agreed Lestrade. "Sergeant Harper and I will see you to the street. We'll get you a cab."

Lestrade and Harper escorted Elizabeth and Angela with the faithful Barney down past the hedge and towards the gate.

"I think I have the answer to Harper's question, Watson," said Holmes as we followed them.

"What's that, Holmes?"

He pointed over his shoulder and I turned to have a look. Shrouded by the fog and falling snow I saw what I had earlier missed in the excitement of the moment. The mausoleum in which the young ladies had been confined was capped with what looked like a belfry. The whole did indeed resemble a rural schoolhouse such as one might find in a small village.

"A schoolhouse in a cemetery, Watson," said Holmes. "Come. Let us join our friends and leave these shivering stones behind for as long as we may."

Holmes and I returned to Baker Street to sit beside our warm fire and drink brandy punch. He played his violin while I wrote my notes of this adventure. Worn and weary, I retired early that night, glad we had found the wayward young ladies and glad, too, for the aid of a little dog.

The End

* * *

Prompt from Winter Winks 221: Schoolhouse in the cemetery


	21. Chapter 21

Prompt from Ennui Enigma: Relate a story from Holmes' university days when he was still finding his career choice

* * *

"Where did this come from?" Sherlock Holmes asked.

"What's that?" Professor Richards asked, setting aside Prince Hamlet's cloak to look at the object in Sherlock's hand. "Alas, poor Yorick!" Professor Richards laughed. "Regrettably, Mr. Holmes, I did not know him well. That skull has been part of this production since well before I was a student here. Legend says he was one of the directors who did not wish to be parted from the theatre."

"Really?" Holmes said and spun the skull to have a closer look at its underside. Holmes was a bright student and showed real promise on the stage. Perhaps he would become an actor, but his tendencies leaned more towards music and chemistry. An odd combination. "I do not think that legend is correct, Professor."

"And why not?" Richards asked, narrowing his eyes and donning his pince-nez.

"For one thing, sir, this is not the skull of a man," said Holmes. He rotated the skull again and ran his finger along the jawbone which was wired to the cranium.

"A skull is a skull, Mr. Holmes," Richards scoffed. "Both men and women have them."

"Of course, sir, but there are differences," said Holmes sedately.

"How can there be?" Richards demanded.

"Well, Professor, there are other differences between men and women," Holmes pointed out.

Richards scowled.

"I am not intending to be disrespectful, sir!" Holmes straightened in his chair, expression alarmed.

"What are you intending, then?" Richards asked. He let his temper cool. Holmes frequently said things undiplomatically, never giving them a thought.

"Only, sir, you see I was reading Sheldon last week. He was an anatomist."

"I see," Richards said. "Go on."

"In his book he has a number of illustrations. One shows the primary ways to distinguish a man's skull from a woman's. The taper of the jaw, the shape of the eye socket, the brow ridge and even the thickness of the bone."

"I see," Richards said. He found a seat in the chair beside Holmes's and regarded the old skull with greater interest. "So this is a woman's skull, eh?"

"I believe so, sir," said Holmes.

"What else can you tell from it? Any notion of how old it is?"

"That is somewhat problematic," said Holmes, returning his attention to the skull. "I do not think it was in the ground for very long. Unfortunately, it has been cleaned many times over the years."

"I dusted it just last week, in fact," said the professor with a smile. "What else?"

"I think she was murdered."

"Ha!" Richards laughed wheezily for several seconds, finally turning indulgent and amused eyes upon Holmes. "How could you possibly determine that from just a skull?"

"Here, sir." Holmes rotated the skull once again, displaying the underside. "See this mark on the inside of the jaw?"

"Probably done when they dug her up," Richards said. "Shovel caught her there. That's all."

"No sir," Holmes said. "A shovel would have scored a wider channel in the bone and doubtless would have fractured the jaw. This is a very narrow slice, done while the bone was still malleable. Or, perhaps that is not the correct word. The bone was still alive, is what I mean. Dead and dried bone tends to crack and chip. Living bone slices or breaks."

"You have studied this?" Richards asked, impressed with the lad's knowledge.

"Not in depth, sir," Holmes admitted. "I spent some time helping my parent's cook in the kitchen. When she prepared beef or pork I watched how she cut the meat and how she dealt with the bones."

"You are a very curious lad. A single cut does not a murder make, though. What other signs tell you this poor girl was murdered?"

"Other signs?" Holmes suddenly seemed confused. The expression made him look much younger than a moment before. "All I have found is this cut in the jaw. It's the angle of the cut that suggests it was a murder. A sharp blade thrust through the neck, severing the carotid artery would make this kind of cut."

"Or it could have been the result of a clumsy prosector," Professor Richards said, the corner of his mouth curling. "Do you really think it wise to jump to a conclusion from one little clue?"

After a long moment of hesitation, Holmes nodded and said, "I take your point, Professor. I was making the evidence conform to a theory."

"Well, never mind, lad," Richards said, clapping Holmes upon the shoulder. "We need to finish preparing the props for rehearsal. Only another week before opening night."

"Yes!" said Holmes, setting aside the skull and rising. "I only hope my fencing is up to the final act."

"You will make a fantastic Laertes, Mr. Holmes."

"You really think so?"

"I think you would make a fantastic anything. Come on. Work to do."


	22. Chapter 22

AN: Prompt at end.

* * *

"Thanks be to God!" Holmes leaned back from the edge and gulped a lungful of cold, moist air. Moriarty, in spite of his age, had been possessed of no small skill and a vast reservoir of determination. It had been a near thing in the end and only the thinnest margin of skill had saved Holmes from sharing his adversary's fate. "Praise be to Heaven! He is gone! Now what?"

Now what indeed. His mind, that finely tuned machine of reason and logic, told Holmes there was an advantage to be gained if he could but plan his next move swiftly. Tell Watson? No. Too dangerous for them both. Better if his escape were unknown to Moriarty's cohorts. Then it must be escape! Escape now or all was done and in vain.

Holmes spun, eyes scanning his surroundings once more. There had been something about that cliff… Handholds! It was not as sheer as it might seem! He stepped carefully and reached out, making the mistake of glancing down.

"Good Lord!"

Holmes jerked back, shocked and surprised by his reaction. He was not afraid of heights. How many times had he skirted along the edge of a building or across some narrow rafter in order to maintain surveillance? Uncounted. Why, then, was he now shaking and dripping with cold sweat?

"Because you just threw a man to his death over those selfsame falls."

Holmes closed his eyes and pressed his lips together. He breathed through his nose. Long, deep, slow breaths. In, hold it, out. In, hold it, out. And gradually he calmed his nerves.

"No time for this." Holmes was not in the habit of speaking to himself, but it seemed he needed encouragement and since he was the only person present, he encouraged himself. Turning to the cliff and the scant few handholds available he began to climb. A nub of rock here and a crack there and his absolute focus brought him steadily up to the ledge where he could shelter out of sight from any who might attempt to come to his rescue.

Poor Watson. He will blame himself. Perhaps I could send him a letter. Of course you bloody well cannot! Sentiment is going to kill you both if you do not focus. Survive now. Plan later.

Holmes dragged himself over the lip of the ledge, a narrow span of rock not even as wide as his bed in Baker Street. Not nearly as comfortable, either. Gasping, he lay upon his back, looking up at the overhanging cliff. The sky was blue with a scattering of clouds. A bird, no more than a silhouette, cruised lazily between the tall trees above. Holmes swallowed hard and wiped grit from his cheek. He began inspecting himself.

Not bad. Bruises. Some scrapes. This waistcoat is far worse for wear. Certainly I will look a Traveler and that may play to my advantage. I will refrain from shaving for a time.

Voices below. Holmes rolled onto his belly and peered down to his late battleground. Watson and a uniformed man, a local constable, along with several others were coming up the path and searching. Watson held Holmes's cigarette case. The poor fellow was near frantic. A young man physically hauled him back from the precipice and shook him. The constable took hold of Watson and spoke in what looked to be a very earnest fashion. Finally, the small party spread out to search in a more organized, though equally futile manner. Watson did not miss the clues of the fight. Years of association had taught him enough. The other men treading here and there obscured any sign of Holmes's retreat to the cliff. Soon they regrouped. Their mood was far more somber. Watson had to be guided as if he were a child. Holmes watched and said nothing.

CRACKKKKK!

Pain and a warm trickle on his right cheek. Holmes wiped at it. Blood.

"What the devil?"

CRACKKKKK! Thump.

Holmes looked down his length to his thigh. A sizable stone rested against him. Had it just fallen at random? He rolled to his back and looked up in time to avoid a third stone. More shards sprayed his arm and side but there was no damage done. Above a shadow moved along the edge of the cliff. A man. A man throwing another stone!

Holmes rolled to his feet and sprang aside. The stone came close, splintered and fell over the edge. Holmes did not hesitate. He lunged and was scaling down the cliff before he had any thought. And then he froze. Cold dread wracked his heart and froze him to the spot. What if he fell? He would be as dead as Moriarty. Death itself did not frighten him half as much as sharing the manner of death with his late adversary. As if chilled by some northern gale, Holmes shivered. He pressed shut his eyes and wished to be anywhere else. Oh God in Heaven, anywhere else!

CCRRAACKKKKKKK!

The stone was massive and sheered a chunk from the lip of his little ledge. Something bounced off his shoulder and something else grazed the back of his left hand. No damage done.

"Sherlock!" he snapped at himself in his father's voice. "Get down now!"

And he did. He scrambled at breakneck speed from one hold to another. A gecko could have done no better. Down like a long legged spider he went and though stones fell none found him. He was down and showing a clean pair heels, dashing through the forest for all he was worth. And he was away from that thrice damned falls.

"I will never return," he promised himself. "I will never return."

* * *

Prompt from sirensbane: Terrified


	23. Chapter 23

AN: Prompt at end of chapter.

* * *

"Holmes!" I cried with what one might consider undue relief.

"Yes, Watson?" he replied casually. He was in the process of removing his hat and ulster and had not yet looked up.

"Holmes, I really need your assistance!" I said. My arm had long since gone to sleep and I could feel my shoulder beginning to separate.

"What is the…" Holmes trailed off and looked at me with the most startled expression I have ever seen on his aquiline face.

"Holmes?"

He broke into merry laughter and clapped his hands as a man might who has achieved some minor accomplishment.

"Holmes! Dash it all! Get me down!"

"Patience, Watson," he said laconically.

"Patience? Patience?" I demanded. I confess my blood was up. On rare occasions I feel humbled or humiliated by my friend, but it is always inadvertent. Here I felt he was outright mocking me. "I have been patient for over an hour!"

"Over an hour?" He rushed to his chemical table where his notebook lay and scribbled in it. "How did you get up there, by the way?"

"Is that important?"

"Rather!" He turned to look up at me and scrutinized my left hand. "How did you get so much on you, Watson?"

"I do not know, Holmes. I simply depressed the button. Thank goodness it was not pointed at my head. I would have smothered by now."

"Indeed you would." Still staring at my hand covered in the odd material he sidestepped in a semicircle around me. "Did it instantly draw you towards the ceiling?"

"Fortunately, no. Look, Holmes, get me down and I will tell you all about it."

"I am afraid, Watson, that I may be unable to do so."

"What?" My heart leapt into my throat and I felt a lump of cold dread form in my belly. "Are we going to have to amputate my hand?"

Holmes laughed and began clearing the apparatus from his chemical table.

"No, Watson," he said, sliding it across the floor until I could get my feet on it. "We need only wait for a time. The substance reacts to sunlight. Eventually it breaks down and turns to dust."

As soon as I got my feet firmly planted I began massaging my shoulder and working my numb fingers in hopes of restoring them.

"What is this substance?" I sounded irritable even in my own ears. "Can it not be cut? Perhaps burned?"

"It is artificial cobweb, Watson," said Holmes, making another note.

"Artificial cobweb?"

"Yes. Quite ingenious, don't you think?"

"What in the wide world would you want it for? Are there not enough spiders making the real stuff?"

"Watson, really?" His voice was chiding. "Can you not see the possibilities? Why, you just discovered one I had not considered."

"What possibilities, Holmes? Possibly a man might inadvertently cripple himself?" I am afraid I was not inclined to be civil at this stage of things. "And just what exactly did I discover? How to hang from our ceiling, slowly pulling my arm from its socket?"

"I am sure if you were in a better mood you would see it," he said, his expression one of disappointment and reproach. "Not to put too fine of a point on the matter, Doctor, but had you left the device alone, you would not have gotten into this predicament."

Averting my eyes, I said rather lamely, "I was merely curious. You've been working on this thing night and day for nearly two weeks. What's it meant for?"

"What is a spider's web meant for?" he said. "To catch prey, obviously."

"Prey?"

"Suppose, Watson, a constable is faced with several ruffians all at once and his fellow constables are minutes away," said Holmes. "With a device such as you have on your wrist he could immobilize them until help arrived."

"I fail to see how getting himself stuck to the criminals is useful."

"It is meant to discharge a short burst! Obviously the device is not yet perfected!" Holmes slapped his notebook down on the table with some heat. "The formula for the web is not yet perfected. The harness for holding the device to the wrist needs to be adjusted. There are still weeks of work ahead of me. This is why you must not play with my things when I am out!"

"I apologize if I offended you," I said. "And I hope I have not ruined anything."

"Ruined?" He shook his head and looked out the window. "No. You have ruined nothing. Well, that depends on what the ceiling plaster looks like when the web disintegrates. Fortunately you did this in the daytime. After dark you would have to wait until morning."

"Yes, well, you said I discovered another potential use for this device."

Holmes turned to look up at me and let out a slow breath. I could see he was mastering his temper and as if to punctuate this fact, he took out his pipe and lit it. I continued to massage my shoulder and waited.

"What you discovered, Watson, is that this particular formula of the artificial web fluid is not only adhesive, it is also constrictive. The previous formula was far too elastic. One would be hampered by it, yet still be able to move and cause mischief."

"So you did not intend for this to constrict?" I asked. "It is not intended to lift a man off his feet in this manner?"

"Not at all," said Holmes. "I suppose it might have some industrial use. Too dangerous for use as a restraint, though. Likely would suffocate or strangle whoever it was sprayed on."

"Well, I could see one use for it," I said recalling what had happened to me. "It could be employed as a mode of travel."

"Travel?"

"Certainly! If you could keep the reservoir from rupturing and coating the hand of the user, a man might be able to shoot a line from a platform to some high object and swing like a monkey on a vine. Perhaps a man could swing from building to building. Or it could be used by firemen. Think of it, Holmes! A building catches fire and the occupants cannot escape through the ground floor. A fireman equipped with one of your web dischargers could swing in and save the day! This could turn an ordinary man into a hero."

"Watson, I would suggest firemen are already heroes."

"Well, a super hero, then!"

Holmes looked thoughtful and scribbled another note. He was interrupted when there was a soft snap similar to the sound a breaking thread makes.

"It seems this formula ages more quickly than the last," he said, consulting his pocket watch.

Several minutes passed during which our flat was filled with the rapid-fire snaps of web. Finally, it fell from the ceiling and turned to a fine powder right before our eyes. I was relieved to be able to lower my hand into a natural position and instantly removed the harness of leather straps that held the web discharger to my palm and wrist. Getting off the table I handed the discharger to Holmes and flexed my fingers.

"What do you think, Holmes?" I asked after he had finished with his notes.

"I think I need to add more starch," he said and wandered off into his bedroom.

For my part, I went to my own room and prepared for dinner, thankful to be on my feet and no worse than a bit sore and stiff. Since then, I have always been sure to ask Holmes before touching anything on his chemical table. I confess, I am exceedingly curious about the bright gems he has recently acquired. They are all of different colors and he seems to be building some sort of gauntlet to mount them on and I have no notion what that might be for either.

* * *

Prompt from Wordwielder: Cobweb

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AN: Blame this on my recent visit to the cinema where I saw 'Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse'.


	24. Lestrade's Little Mystery

Prompt from sirensbane: Secret Santa.

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 **Lestrade's Little Mystery**

"Gregson?"

"Hmm? What is it, Lestrade?"

"Have you been finding anything unusual on your desk?"

Gregson looked up from his paperwork and narrowed his eyes at his colleague.

"Small packets, wrapped in paper," said Lestrade.

"I have not," Gregson said and leaned back in his chair. "What sort of packets? Anything to do with a case?"

Lestrade shook his head and glanced out into the hallway as if concerned they might be overheard.

"What are they, then?" asked Gregson.

"The first was a pair of crumpets with jam. A bit messy, but good."

"The first?"

"Yes. I thought it was one of the other inspectors bringing breakfast treats for everyone. You know how some do this time of year."

"Yes. Some nice confections last week. That was teatime, though. You say this package was left on your desk?"

"At the corner of my blotter. Thought nothing of it."

"And?"

"Well, there have been four more since."

"All crumpets?"

"No. The next was a muffin with slices of good ham on it. Very good ham. Another pair of crumpets, but with butter instead of jam. And this morning it was a stack of ginger biscuits."

"Sounds innocent enough to me." Gregson chuckled. "Why so worried, Lestrade?"

"Not worried, Gregson. Not that."

"What then?"

"Frankly, I am uncomfortable with it. I should like to know who is leaving these packets and why."

"For goodness sake. It's Christmas time, man! The spirit of giving and all that."

"I should also like to repay the kindness. It is a rather nice thing for someone to do. Being a bachelor I do not often enjoy baked goods aside from bread. It has been pleasant."

"You're blushing," Gregson said with an indulgent smirk.

"Am not. It's the heat. You keep your office much warmer than mine."

Gregson forced himself not to smile.

"So what do you think?" Lestrade asked, a sheepish expression on his face.

"You find these gifts when you arrive?"

"Yes. First thing in the morning."

"You arrive about the same time I do and there are rarely others before us." Gregson stroked his chin in thought. "Seems an odd sort of thing for a man to do."

"I agree." Lestrade looked out into the hallway again and stepped closer to Gregson's desk. "I was thinking it was a woman, but there are so few here."

"Aside from the typists in the front office, there are only the cleaning staff."

"You think it could be a typist?"

"I shouldn't think so. Maybe, but they do not arrive until eight."

"Well after we get here." It was Lestrade's turn to stroke his chin. "One of the cleaning staff, then."

"Yes."

"Which?"

Gregson chuckled, making an effort to keep the noise down.

"It isn't funny!" Lestrade said.

"It surely is!" Gregson countered. "Look, Lestrade, maybe one of the dears thinks you need some fattening up. You know how women are."

"I do not need to fatten up!"

"I am not saying you do. Only consider what a woman might take into her head."

Lestrade dropped his gaze and paced in front of Gregson's desk.

"It's possible, I suppose," he grudgingly said a minute later. "What do I do?"

"I don't know. What do you think you should do?"

"I thought to leave a note of thanks. Express my gratitude, you know? Only, what if this person, this woman, cannot read?"

"I see." Gregson nodded. That did make sense. Many working class folk never learned to read, being too busy earning a living. "If it actually is one of the cleaners, a small, practical gift might be a good alternative."

"Small and practical?" Lestrade narrowed his eyes in thought.

"And you could include a note with it. If she can't read, she can take it to someone who can."

"That's a very good idea," said the ferret-faced inspector. "What sort of small but practical gift do you think?"

"I don't know, but Lestrade, I have more than enough paperwork to complete today." Gregson indicated the stack of folders at the corner of his desk.

"Right! My apologies, Gregson. Thanks for your time."

A moment after Lestrade departed a slim, attractive young typist stepped into view just outside Gregson's door. Tow-headed and fine featured, she was on the tall side of average and her eyes sparked with interest.

"Yes, Eleanor?" he asked and smiled a knowing smile.

"Well?" she asked.

"He is curious."

"Tobias!"

"Hush! Come in here. Don't want everyone to know, do you?"

"If you were not my brother I think I would throttle you! What does he think?"

"It took him long enough to suss it, but I'd say your ginger biscuits and those crumpets are getting his attention in a good way. He liked the ham, as well."

"And?" she pressed.

"And I believe the ball is rolling and you must await developments. Now, do not be too long from your desk."

"You will let me know what develops?"

"That would be ungentlemanly."

She turned a gem hard glare upon him.

"All right. Very well, but only because you are my sister. Don't know what you see in him."

"What I…" Eleanor gaped at her older brother. "What I see in him is a man who is brave, intelligent and resourceful. I see a man with a future. On top of all that, Tobias, he is a man you cannot browbeat and intimidate, unlike the last three."

"I never did," he protested.

"Ha!" She snapped her fingers right in front of his nose, turned and strode out with the dignity of an affronted cat.

"Well," Gregson grumbled, "she could do worse."


End file.
